


Catch Me If You Can

by illusemywords



Category: Catch Me If You Can (2002), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Claudia Stilinski, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Bisexual Derek Hale, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Catch Me If You Can!AU, Criminal Stiles Stilinski, Endgame Sterek, Enemies to Lovers, FBI Agent Derek Hale, Forgery, M/M, Minor Character Death, Panic Attacks, Runaway Stiles, Secret Identity, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6893500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illusemywords/pseuds/illusemywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Stiles Stilinski is 20 years old, he successfully cons millions of dollars' worth of checks posing as a Pan Am pilot, doctor, and lawyer. This is the story of him, and Derek Hale, the FBI agent chasing him. </p><p>Based on the movie Catch Me If You Can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catch Me If You Can

**Author's Note:**

> It seems it's my destiny to write long, slow build Sterek stories about FBI agents. This will probably make the most sense if you've seen the movie, but I don't think it should be a problem if you haven't.
> 
> I added a minor character death tag. It is not Stiles or Derek, but if you would like to know who it is I've written it in the end notes.
> 
> Sheriff Stilinski is not a sheriff in this story; he runs a stationary store and is not too fond of the government. He might also seem kind of OOC, so, sorry about that. Claudia is alive - and French.
> 
> A lot of the dialogue is taken from the movie - if you read anything especially clever or funny, I probably didn't come up with it.
> 
> There are a lot of time jumps/POV changes in this. I've tried to make it as clear as possible, but it's still a lot.
> 
> I've been working on this story for a while now, and while I might not be totally happy with it, I want to get it posted. So, I hope you enjoy this.

**Marseille, France - Christmas Eve 1969**

Derek Hale is walking through the dark halls of a French prison. It’s Christmas Eve and he doesn’t want to be here. He’s here to meet a criminal, a man he suspects he might have feelings for, and to hopefully bring him with him back to the States.

There is water dripping from the ceiling and onto the floor from cracks in the ceiling. Derek had closed his umbrella when he entered the building, but is considering opening it again now. This prison has clearly seen better days.

The guard in front of him is dressed in a dark uniform with a matching hat. He walks with purpose, not looking back to check that Derek is following. He stops at the end of a hallway, in front of a closed door.

The guard turns to him and points to a small footstool that stands off to one side of the door, next to a small latch in the wall. He says in a heavily accented English, “You sit here. You do not open the door. You do not pass him anything through the hole.” The guard leaves.

Derek sits down and puts a hand to the latch, pushing it open and peeking inside. From what he can see the cell consists of cold concrete walls, a filthy toilet and a thin mattress on the floor. At the top of the mattress, wrapped in a thin, ragged blanket, sits Stiles Stilinski, 21 years old. He’s coughing and shivering, hair longer than Derek has ever seen it. He has a filthy looking, unkempt beard. His skin is pale, almost translucent, and he looks thin. Too thin. He seemingly doesn’t notice Derek, eyes closed tight, but Derek knows better than to underestimate him.

Water droplets hits Derek’s hat and he opens his umbrella, holding it over his head with his free hand.

“Aw, Jesus,” Derek says under his breath as Stiles coughs violently.

“You know,” Derek continues. “I’ve got a little bit of a cold myself.”

Stiles doesn’t answer, doesn’t even open his eyes.

“Stiles, I’m here to read the articles of extradition according to the European Court for Human Rights. Article one: Extradition shall be granted in respect of offenses punishable under the laws –“

Stiles lifts his head from where he’s been leaning against the wall. “Help me,” he croaks weakly.

Derek’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. He doesn’t sound like Stiles. He continues reading. “– for the maximum period of at least one year of a severe penalty.”

“Help me,” Stiles whispers again. Derek looks at him as his eyes blink open slowly, unable to tear himself away from the glassy look in them.

“Stiles,” he says softly. “Stop it.”

“Help me.”

“You don’t actually think you can fool me, do you?”

Stiles’ only answer is another raspy cough.

Derek sighs heavily. “Sixteen pages to go. Stay with me. Article two: If the request for extradition includes several separate offenses each of which is punishable under the laws –“

There’s a soft thud.

“– of the requesting party –“

Derek looks up to see Stiles huddled on the floor. “Stiles?” he asks. No response. “Stiles?”

“God dammit. Get me a doctor in here!” Derek gets up, knocking over the small stool as he turns around. The same guard from before is running towards him, accompanied by another guard. They’re speaking rapidly in French.

“I need a doctor!” he yells. They open the door and carry Stiles outside and down the hall. He’s barely moving. His chest is rising and falling weakly.

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” Derek says, following closely behind the guards. “We’re going to get you right to a doctor.”

Stiles is brought to the infirmary and unceremoniously dropped onto an empty bed. Derek stands next to Stiles’ shivering form. Derek notices again how pale he is. He looks white as a ghost. “Stiles, if you can hear me, don’t worry,” he says. “I’m going to take you home in the morning.”

The guards draw a partition around his bed, shielding him from view. “Home in the morning, Stiles,” Derek promises, turning and following after the retreating guards.

They stop by a nearby sink, quickly washing their hands. “What are you doing?” Derek asks.

“Washing off the lice,” the guard Derek had spoken to earlier replies.

Anger blossoms hot in Derek’s chest. “This man has to be on a plane for America,” Derek says, gesturing at the partition behind him. “He has to see a doctor!”

“The doctor comes in tomorrow,” the guard explains.

“I have worked too long, too hard for you to take this away from me,” Derek says angrily, jabbing a finger into the guard’s chest. “If he dies, I’m holding you responsible.”

Behind them, a creaking sound interrupts their conversation. Derek whips around, strides over to the partition and tears it aside. The bed Stiles had just been in is empty, and the door next to it is open wide. “Oh, Stiles,” Derek sighs, shaking his head.

It doesn’t take them long to find him. Not with the state he’s in. The alarm is blaring over their heads, prisoners are cheering and rattling cups against the bars of their cells. Stiles is stumbling forward, tripping over his feet on every other step.

Derek and the guards advance quickly. Stiles trips and falls down. He tries to get up, but doesn’t get further than his hands and knees before he hears the familiar sound of a gun cocking behind him. He feels the barrel pressing against the back of his head. He lays back down, rolling over onto his back.

When Derek approaches, Stiles looks up at him. “Okay, Derek,” he says, voice barely audible. “Let’s go home.”

***

Six years earlier  
**New Rochelle, New York – October 1963**

“The New Rochelle Rotary Club has a history that goes back to 1919. In all of those years, we’ve only seen a handful of deserving gentlemen inducted as lifetime members. It’s an honor that has seen 57 names enshrined on the wall of honor, and tonight, we make it 58. So please stand as I present my very good friend, a man who keeps our pencils sharp and our pens in ink, John William Stilinski.”

The crowd cheers. John Stilinski stands up, giving his wife, Claudia a kiss on her cheek and clapping his son’s shoulder as he passes him. He shakes hands and nods at the people he passes on his way up to the stage, where he embraces his friend Adrian Harris in a hug.

John Stilinski is an average upper middle class guy. He has dark brown hair, green eyes and a bright smile. He owns and runs a stationary store in New Rochelle, New York. He’s married to a gorgeous French woman. She has even darker hair than John does, falling past her shoulders in beautiful curls. Her eyes are hazel, almost caramel. Together they have a son, John William Stilinski, jr. They live together in a nice house; he drives a nice car. He’s happy.

“I stand here humbled,” he beams. “by the presence of Mayor Robert Wagner and our club president, Adrian Harris.” The crowd cheers again. “Most of all, I’m honored to see my loving wife Claudia, and my son John jr., or, as most of you know him, Stiles. Stiles, come on, stand up –“ Stiles looks up at his father, smiling widely, but he doesn’t move from his seat. “sitting in the front row.”

Stiles hears scattered laughter throughout the room. He’s never been prouder of his dad than he is in this moment.

John clears his throat and continues speaking. “Two little mice fell in a bucket of cream,” he says. “The first mouse quickly gave up and drowned. The second mouse refused to give up. He struggled so hard that, eventually, he churned that cream into butter, and crawled out. Gentlemen, as of this moment, I am that second mouse.”

The crowd applauds. Stiles cheers. His mom is grinning and clapping.

***

**Christmas Eve – 1963**

It’s Christmas Eve. Stiles is dancing with his mother in the living room, Frank Sinatra playing from the record player. Stiles’ dad is standing by the wall, watching his family, smiling happily. 

“You’re a better dancer than your father, Stiles,” Claudia says, smiling as Stiles twirls her around.

“Hear that, dad?” Stiles chuckles, grinning over at his dad.

“Show him the dance you were doing when we met,” John says, sitting down on the arm of the couch.

“Ah, who can remember?” Claudia shakes her head, laughing.

“The people in that little French village were so happy to see Americans they decided to put on a show for us,” John says. Stiles has heard this story countless times, but he never gets tired of it. It’s the beginning of his parents’ happy ending. He could hear it a thousand times and never get sick of it.

“So they crammed 200 soldiers into that tiny social hall. And the first person to walk onstage is your mother, and she starts to dance.” Stiles and Claudia are still twirling mindlessly, Claudia holding Stiles’ hand in one of her own and a glass of wine in the other.

“You know,” John continues, looking far away, lost in the memory. “it had been months since we had even seen a woman, and here’s this dark haired angel.”

“Dark haired bombshell,” Stiles says. His mother giggles.

“And the men are literally holding their breath.”

“Holding their breath for you,” Stiles nods. “You hear that?”

“And I turn to my buddies and said –“

“I will not leave France without her,” Stiles finishes.

“And I didn’t,” John says solemnly.

“You didn’t,” Stiles agrees, smiling.

“I didn’t,” John repeats quietly.

Stiles twirls his mother again and the wine glass tilts, dark liquid spilling onto the white carpet, quickly seeping into the fabric and staining it a bright red.

“Oh, shit. Oh, shit, the rug,” Stiles’ mom says, stepping back.

“Aw, mom.”

“I can’t believe I did that,” Claudia says, looking at John sadly.

“No, no, it’s nothing,” John says, shaking his head.

“Stiles, get a towel.”

Stiles turns and hurries into the kitchen to get a wet towel. When he returns, his parents are dancing, the end of the Frank Sinatra song coming from the speakers. _Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you._ “Dance with me, Claudia,” John says softly, grabbing her hands in his.

Stiles stops in the doorway and watches. “Whenever I dance for you I get in trouble,” Claudia mutters, smiling up at her husband as they dance slowly around the living room. Stiles doesn’t speak, just watches his parents. He doesn’t think his life can get any better than this.

***

**March 1964**

“Stiles, get up. Come on, let’s go!” Stiles opens his eyes to find his father standing over him. He blinks slowly, confused.

“Dad…” he says, yawning.

“You don’t have to go to school today, it’s okay.”

Stiles frowns. “Why, is it snowing?” he asks.

“Do you have a black suit?” his dad asks, ignoring his question.

“What? Did I oversleep again?”

“We have a very important meeting in the city,” his dad says, pushing a bagel into his mouth. “Here, eat that. Come on, come on, eat.”

After eating the bagel and getting dressed, Stiles’ dad hurries him out into the car, a beautiful, white, Coupe DeVille. He drives them downtown. He stops outside a men’s suit shop and steps outside. Stiles scrambles to follow him.

His dad steps up to the door, where a ‘closed’ sign is clearly visible through the bars covering the front of the store. He starts knocking on the bars, rattling them, trying to get the attention of the shop attendant inside. “Ma’am,” John calls out. “Ma’am, just open up, please. It’s important.”

The woman looks at John and walks over to the door, gesturing to the sign. “We don’t open for half an hour,” she says.

“Open the door, please. Just open the door. It’s important.”

“I – I’m sorry, we don’t open for half an hour,” the woman repeats, shaking her head.

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Darcy,” she answers.

“Darcy,” John repeats, smiling. “That’s a pretty name.”

“You see, Darcy, I’m in a bit of a fix. I need a suit for my kid. This is my son, Stiles. He needs a black suit.”

“Black suit,” Darcy repeats, nodding slowly.

“There was a death in the family. My father, 85 years old, war hero.”

Stiles knows very well that his grandfather died years before Stiles was even born, but he doesn’t say anything. He has never seen his dad like this.

“Yeah?” Darcy asks, looking sympathetic.

“There’s a funeral this afternoon, military funeral, planes flying overhead, 21-gun salute. Stiles needs to borrow a suit for a couple hours.”

Darcy’s face hardens. “I’m sorry, we don’t loan suits, and we’re not open.” She starts to walk away.

“Darcy, Darcy please, come back.”

Stiles is sure all hope is lost, but then his dad pulls something small and shiny from his jacket pocket. “Darcy, is this yours?” he asks. Darcy turns to look and gasps at the gold necklace hanging from his dad’s fingers. “I just found it in the parking lot,” John says, smiling hopefully. “It must’ve slipped right off your neck.”

A short time later, Stiles is dressed in a crisp, black suit, a black uniform hat on his head as he drives their car jerkily. At the young age of 15 Stiles has barely started learning how to drive. The tires screech as he pulls to a stop at the front of the Chase Manhattan Bank. “Don’t hit the curb,” his dad says. Stiles hits the curb, breaks squeaking loudly.

“Now, get out, walk around the back and hold the door open for me.” Stiles does as his dad says. He narrowly avoids being hit by a passing cab, walks around the back and opens the door as his dad steps out onto the curb.

“All right,” Stiles says, grinning excitedly at his dad. “What’s next?”

“Stop grinning,” his dad tells him. “When I go inside, you go back to the front seat and wait. Even if a cop comes and writes you a ticket you don’t move the car, understood?”

Stiles nods. “Dad, what’s all this for?” he asks.

His dad smiles tiredly, looking older than Stiles has ever seen him. “Do you know why the Yankees always win, Stiles?” he asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Because they have Mickey Mantle?” he guesses. He’s never paid that much attention to the Yankees.

His dad shakes his head. “No, it’s because the other teams can’t stop staring at those damn pin stripes. Now, watch this. The manager of Chase Manhattan Bank is about to open the door for you father.” As he speaks, sure enough, a man in a suit steps up to the door and pushes it open, staring expectantly at his father, who moves toward him. Stiles waits in the car. Stiles doesn’t know it, but this is one of those days he’ll look back on and say ‘that was the day everything changed.’”

When his dad returns he drives them to a car dealership, where he sells their white Coupe DeVille Cadillac and they leave in a smaller, beat up, blue car. “Dad, how could you just let him take our car like that?” Stiles asks, shocked.

“He didn’t take anything,” his dad maintains. “We took him. He overpaid by 500 dollars. Come on, Stiles, let’s return the suit.”

A few weeks later, they sell the house. Stiles stands on the lawn, looking back at his childhood home for the last time while his dad loads the car with the last of their belongings. His mom is crying.

“This place is good,” Stiles’ dad insists. Stiles has never doubted his dad before, but he does now. “It’s small, but, you know, it’s going to be a lot less work for you.” Stiles’ mother doesn’t seem at all reassured by this.

***

**April 1964**

Stiles’ 16th birthday is a few weeks after they move into their new apartment. He’s in the kitchen, making pancakes, when his dad comes home from the store.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles greets him with a smile, flipping a pancake.

“Hi,” his dad answers. “Where’s your mother?”

“I don’t know, she said something about going to look for a job,” he says, shrugging.

His dad smiles crookedly. “What is she gonna be? A shoe salesman at a centipede farm?” Stiles laughs harder than he has in days.

“What are you doing?” Stiles’ dad asks through his laughter.

Stiles straightens up, wipes tears from the corners of his eyes. “You want some pancakes?” he asks, gesturing to the pan in front of him.

“For dinner?” his dad asks incredulously. “On my son’s 16th birthday? We’re not gonna eat pancakes.”

Stiles smiles softly at his dad. “Come on,” John says. “Why are you looking at me like that? You thought I forgot? I didn’t forget.” John shakes his head and turns to his suitcase, opening it and pulling something out. “I opened a checking account in your name,” he says. “I put 25 dollars in the account, so you can buy whatever you want. Don’t tell your mother.”

Stiles smiles down at the checkbook his dad hands him. “I won’t,” he promises. “Thanks, dad.”

“Didn’t that bank turn you down for a loan, though?” Stiles asks, frowning down at the bank logo.

“Yes,” his dad says, chuckling. “They all turned me down.”

“Then why are you opening a banking account with them?” Stiles asks, confused.

“Well, because one day you’ll want something from these people,” his dad explains. “A house, a car. They have all the money. There’s 50 checks in there, Stiles, which means, from this day on, you’re in their little club.”

“I’m in their little club,” Stiles says excitedly.

“You got that, you got it all.”

“It’s even got my name there, huh?” Stiles flips slowly through the checkbook, looking at all the blank checks.

“To the moon,” his dad says. Stiles nods.

“To the moon,” he parrots, smiling brightly.

***

The next Monday, Stiles starts his new school. His mom drives him, and they sit together outside until the bell rings. “See that?” she says. “It’s just a school. No different than Westbourne.”

Stiles disagrees, but doesn’t say anything. His mom reaches into her purse and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She takes out a cigarette and puts it between her lips, lighting it before shoving the pack and the lighter back in her bag.

“Mom, you said you were gonna quit,” Stiles complains, looking pointedly at the cigarette his mom is holding.

“Stiles, you don’t have to wear the uniform here,” she says, reaching over with her free hand and touching the uniform jacket he’s wearing. “Why don’t you take off the jacket?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m used to it.”

He exits the car and walks into his new school.

Once he’s gotten his schedule from the office, he wanders through the halls, not knowing where he’s supposed to go. “Excuse me?” he says, stopping next to a girl standing by her locker.

She turns to look at him, smiling. “Oh, yes?”

“Do you know where room 17 French is?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s –“

She’s interrupted by Stiles being slammed forcefully into the lockers. Stiles turns just in time to see a pair of broad shoulders in a red and white letterman jacket disappearing down the hall.

He finally makes finds his way to the right room, and finds a room full of noisy students and no teacher. A pair of guys pass by him, staring with distaste evident on their faces. “Yeah, he looks like a substitute teacher,” one of the guys say. The other laughs.

Stiles stares down at the blazer he’s wearing and makes a split second decision. Looking up, he walks over to the blackboard and picks up a piece of chalk, writing in large, block letters ‘Mr. Stilinski’. “Quiet down, people,” he says loudly, putting as much conviction into his voice as he can. “My name is Mr. Stilinski. That’s Stilinski, no Staleinski, not Stilinskay, Stilinski.” He turns around. “Will someone please tell me where you left off in your textbooks?”

Stiles holds the textbook in his hand, waiting impatiently for someone to answer him. “Excuse me, people if I need to ask again I’m going to write up the entire class. Take your seats!” They finally listen, staring at him for a few seconds before scrambling down into their seats.

Stiles walks down the middle row to the back of the classroom.

“Chapter seven,” someone says.

“Will you please open your textbooks to chapter eight, and we’ll get started?”

He stops next to the desk of the boy who had mouthed off to him when he entered the room. He also recognizes him as the boy who had pushed him into the lockers earlier. Clenching his teeth tightly in anger, Stiles bends down and speaks to him. “Excuse me, what’s your name?” he asks.

The boy looks up at him, disgust clear in his eyes. The feeling is definitely mutual. “Brad,” he says.

Stiles nods. “Brad, why don’t you get up here in front of the class and read conversation number five.”

Brad blushes, clearly unhappy with this, but doesn’t protest. He walks slowly up to the front of the class and turns around. Opening his book to the right page, he starts reading in slow, broken, French. The class starts snickering.

While Brad is in the middle of reading, the door opens, revealing an elderly woman standing in the doorway. “They sent for me,” she says. “They said they needed a sub for Marin. I came all the way from Dixon.”

“Well, uh, I always sub for Marin,” Stiles says, then turns to look at Brad, who is quiet. “Excuse me, why aren’t you reading?” Brad quickly goes back to reading. The class keeps laughing.

“I’ll never come back to this school again,” the woman declares. “You tell them not to call me! What do they think? That it’s easy for a woman my age? And all the money it costs to travel? I’ll tell you, they don’t give a damn.”

***

Stiles is sitting outside the principal’s office. The door is closed, but he can still make out what is being said inside. “Mr. and Mrs. Stilinski,” that’s the principal. “This is not a question of your son’s attendance. I regret to inform you that, for the past week, Stiles has been teaching Mrs. Morrell’s French class.”

“He what?” That was his mom.

“Your son has been pretending to be a substitute teacher, lecturing the students, giving out homework. Mrs. Morrell has been ill and there was some confusion with the real sub. Your son held a teacher-parent conference yesterday and was planning a class field trip to a French bread factory in Trenton. Do you see the problem we have?”

Stiles smiles at the memory of talking to Brad’s parents the night before. That had been an … interesting experience. Perhaps he even understood a bit more of Brad’s behavior.

He’s just about to focus on the conversation again when a girl steps up to the desk next to him.

“Yeah?” the receptionist says.

“Uh,” she says. “I have a note to miss fifth and sixth period today. Doctor’s appointment.”

Stiles looks down at the note in her hands. It looks fake.

“One moment,” the receptionist says as the phone rings. She turns away to answer it. “I’ll be right with you,” she promises.

“Hey,” Stiles whispers, catching the girl’s attention.

“Yes?” she asks.

“You should fold it,” he says. She looks confused.

“What?”

“The note. It’s fake, right? You should fold it.”

“It’s – It’s a note from my mom,” she insists. “I have a doctor’s appointment.”

“Yeah, but there’s no crease in the paper,” he explains. “When your mom hands you a note to miss school the first thing you do is you fold it, and you put it in your pocket. I mean, if it’s real, where’s the crease?” He shrugs, turning away. If she wants to get caught that’s none of his business.

Stiles sees her looking around as she leans against the receptionist’s desk and quickly folds the note twice. He smiles to himself, but doesn’t say anything else.

Seconds later the door to the principal’s office opens. His mom walks out, glances at him, and keeps walking without saying anything. His dad comes next. He stops next to Stiles’ seat and Stiles stands up, trying to look remorseful.

“Stiles,” he says. Stiles bows his head. A chuckle makes him look up. His dad is smiling. Stiles starts smiling too, and soon they’re both trying to stifle their chuckles as they walk out of the school to where Stiles’ mother is waiting in the car.

***

**May 1964**

“Mom, I’m home,” Stiles calls out, the door slamming shut behind him. He drops his bag in the hallway, picking up and rifling through the mail sitting on the hallway table. There’s music coming from somewhere in the house, slow and seductive. “Oh, you remember that girl Lydia that I was telling you about? I asked her out today. I think we’re going to the Junior prom.” The music stops. Stiles finds a letter addressed to him from the DMV. “Mom, is this my driver’s license?” he asks, looking up to see his mom walking out from her and his dad’s bedroom, closely followed by New Rochelle Rotary Club president, Adrian Harris.

“That’s all there is, two bedrooms,” his mother tells Harris before noticing Stiles. “Oh, Stiles, you remember dad’s friend? Adrian Harris? From the club.”

“Hello,” Stiles says cautiously. Adrian Harris is tall and pale, with dark, greasy looking hair. Stiles doesn’t like the man. And the man doesn’t much like Stiles either, from the few times they’ve interacted.

“He came by looking for your father,” his mom says quickly. “I was just giving him a tour of the apartment.”

“It’s very, uh, spacious, Claudia,” Harris says, nodding.

“Dad’s at the store,” Stiles says slowly. Mom knows that. Hell, Harris probably knows that. Maybe that was what they were counting on.

Harris clears his throat awkwardly, stepping closer to clap Stiles on the shoulder. “So, Stiles, you’re getting to look more like your father every day.” Stiles shrugs his hand off and steps back. It’s an awkward attempt at being civil, at most. Harris looks over at Stiles’ mom. “Thanks for the sandwich, Claudia. I’ll see you later, eh?” He turns to leave.

“Wait,” Stiles says. Harris stops. Stiles walks over to the couch where he notices a small piece of metal glinting in the sunlight streaming in from the window. “Is this yours?” he asks, picking it up and showing it to him.

“Oh,” Harris says, taking it in his hand. “Well, thanks, Stiles. That’s the president’s pin. I’d be in deep trouble if I lost that.” He chuckles slowly. Stiles doesn’t say anything, just continues staring at him. “I’ll see you later?” Stiles doesn’t answer. Neither does his mom.

Once Harris has left, Stiles drops into a chair, forcefully grabbing the letter he had been holding earlier and ripping it open. Just like he thought, it contains his driver’s license. He holds it in his hands, staring down at it. ‘John William Stilinski, jr.’

“Are you hungry, Stiles?” his mother asks cautiously. “I’ll make you a sandwich,” she says when he doesn’t answer.

Stiles keeps staring at the small picture of himself, taken just a few weeks earlier. He had been happy that day, he remembers. He had been happy just a few minutes ago, too.

“Adrian wanted to talk business with your father. He thinks we should get a lawyer and sue the government. That is not legal, what they’re doing to us.”

Stiles stays silent, thinking.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” his mom asks quietly, and then, barely audible, “You’re not going to tell him … are you?”

“No,” Stiles says softly, surprising himself. Why shouldn’t he tell him? He deserves to know. He thinks about his mom, how sad she had been when they had to move, how dad had tried to reassure her to no avail. His dad deserves to know, but maybe his mom deserves to have this to herself. If it helps.

“That’s right,” she agrees nervously. “There’s nothing to tell.”

Stiles stays silent. “I’m going out for a few hours,” his mom declares. “To visit some old friends from the tennis club and …” She pauses. “When we get home we’ll all have dinner together, right?”

Stiles nods.

“But you won’t say anything because it’s, it’s just silly, isn’t it? How could we sue anybody?”

She opens her purse and takes out a cigarette and a lighter. Holding the stick between her lips she grabs her wallet too. “Do you need some money, Stiles? A few dollars to buy some record albums?” She hands him a bill. “Here, have five dollars. Or – or ten.”

Stiles takes the money, pushes himself up out of the chair and, without looking at his mother, says, “You promised you were gonna quit.” He walks quickly down the hall to his room, slamming the door behind himself.

***

**June 1964**

Things are quiet for a while after that. His dad works, his mom smokes, they eat dinner together most nights. Stiles stays quiet a lot of the time, concentrating on his schoolwork. After his stunt posing as a substitute teacher he hasn’t been able to make any friends. No one talks to him, and those who do mostly throw insults at him.

So when he gets home from school today, calls out to his mom, and doesn’t get an answer, he immediately notices. It’s a break in a pattern that’s been consistent for weeks.

He steps quickly into their living room, noticing a strange suit jacket and hat that has been thrown over the back of a chair. He picks up the jacket, looking at it. It doesn’t belong to his father, Stiles knows that much. A door opens and reveals a man Stiles has never seen before. He drops the jacket, stepping backwards quickly.

“Hey, hey,” the man says, holding his hands up.

“You – you stay away from me, hear me?” Stiles says, heart beating loudly in his chest. “You stay away from me. I don’t know who you are but if you ever come back here again –“

“Hey, Stiles, Stiles, calm down, will you? I’m David Whittemore. Now, I want you to leave your things here and follow me into the next room, okay? They’re all waiting for you.”

Stiles doesn’t know who he means by all, but he drops his bag and follows the man – David Whittemore – into his parents’ bedroom, where he finds his mom and dad and a woman he vaguely recognizes as his French grandmother, his mom’s mother. He doesn’t know what she’s doing here.

The next few hours pass in a blur.

“You don’t have to be scared,” his mom promises. “I’m right here, Stiles, I’ll always be right here. But there are laws. Everything in this country has to be legal.”

Stiles looks up at his mother, not understanding what she’s saying. She continues.

“So what we need to do is make some decisions. That’s what Mr. Whittemore is here for.”

Mr. Whittemore, who Stiles has learned is a lawyer, starts talking. “A lot of times these conditions are left up to the courts, but that can be very expensive, Stiles, people fighting for their children.”

Fighting? His mom grabs his face in her soft hands and turns it towards her. “Nobody’s fighting,” she promises. “Look at me, Stiles. Nobody’s fighting.” Stiles does. He looks at her. She looks tired. She turns around and starts speaking rapid French with her mother. Stiles wishes he was better at it, so he could know what they were saying.

“Dad, what’s going on?” he asks quietly. His dad hasn’t said anything yet. He looks tired, more tired than his mom. There are dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days.

He doesn’t get an answer.

“Do you remember your grandma, Eve?” her mother asks, gesturing to the old woman. His grandmother smiles brightly, saying something in French that he doesn’t understand. “She arrived this morning.”

“Hello,” Stiles says softly. He doesn’t know what else to say to her. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t met her since he was very young. He can feel his heart beating faster.

“Do you understand what we’re saying to you, Stiles?” his mother asks, looking worried. Stiles shakes his head. “Your father and I are getting a divorce.” Divorce. This can’t be happening. He knew things weren’t perfect, but he didn’t think they were this bad. It felt like years had passed since last Christmas, when his parents had been dancing and kissing and smiling at each other. What happened to those people? They used to be happy.

“Nothing’s gonna change,” his mom insists.

“We’re still going to see each other,” his dad promises.

“Stop it, please, John. Don’t interrupt,” his mom pleads.

A block of papers is stuffed into his hands, the lawyer looking down at him with a smile. He’s trying to look reassuring, Stiles realizes. It’s not working.

“Stiles, you don’t have to read all of this,” he says. “Most of it’s for your parents – boring adult business – but this paragraph right here, this is important. It states who you’re going to live with after the divorce. Whose custody you’ll be in. And there’s a blank space right here.”

Stiles looks down at the paragraph the lawyer is referring to. There is indeed a blank space in the text. The lawyer hands him a pen. “Now, I want you to go into the kitchen, sit at the table, and put down a name. You can take as long as you want, but when you come back into this room I want to see a name on that line.”

His breaths are getting faster; he doesn’t know what’s happening.

“Stiles, just write down a name and this will be over,” his dad says. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Dad, what name?” he asks. He doesn’t understand. He feels like he can’t breathe. He’s gasping for air but he’s not getting any oxygen.

“Your mother or your father,” the lawyer explains slowly. “Just put the name there, it’s as simple as that.”

Stiles doesn’t think that sounds simple at all.

“And don’t look so scared. It’s not a test. There’s no wrong answer.”

Isn’t there? Hasn’t this man just asked Stiles to choose between his parents? How is this not going to end in heartbreak for one of them?

He walks out to the kitchen, fully intending to sit down at the table like Whittemore had told him. Instead, he found himself throwing open the the front door, running down the stairs, out to the streets. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but somehow he ends up at the train station.

“One ticket to Grand Central station, please,” he gasps, holding a hand to the stitch in his side.

“That’ll be $3.50, sir.”

Stiles looks up. He doesn’t have any money. “Is it okay if I write you a check?” he asks, remembering the checkbook in his jacket pocket.

***

**Paris, France – December 1969**

“Derek, when do I get to call my father?” Stiles asks, looking at Derek in the mirror. Derek is sitting on the bed behind him. Stiles is sitting in front of a vanity, hands handcuffed in front of him.

“You can call him when we get to New York,” Derek says, not looking up from the case file he’s reading. “We leave for the airport in seven hours. Until then, just sit there and be quiet.”

Derek should know by now that telling Stiles to stay quiet is like telling the sun to stop shining. It just doesn’t happen. “You know, Derek,” he starts quietly. “On the other side of the hotel they have suits that face the park.”

“This is the best room the FBI can afford,” Derek replies.

“It’s okay. I’ve stayed in worse.” Stiles remembers his first weeks living alone in New York. Before he learned how to survive.

***

**New York City, June 1964**

“Mr. Mudrick, Mr. Mudrick, please, you have to listen.” It’s the middle of the night, Stiles is in his pajamas, clutching the small bag that holds his only possessions.

“I don’t want to hear your story,” the landlord, Mr. Mudrick says. “This is two checks that bounced. You know how much trouble I’m in?”

“No, but listen, I’m telling you, the bank, they made the mistake,” Stiles bargains, digging his heels into the ground where Mr. Mudrick is pushing him towards the doors. “I’ll write you another check right now.”

“What, do I look like I was born yesterday?” Mr. Mudrick scoffs, pushing Stiles the last few feet forward, out the door.

“Look, it’s midnight, Mr. Mudrick. Where am I gonna go?” he asks wildly, gesturing to the dark streets surrounding them.

Mr. Mudrick gives him what he thinks is a sympathetic look. “You’re a goddamn kid,” he says. “Go home.” He shuts the door in his face.

***

The 25 dollars that had been in his account when he left home disappear quickly. He’s able to pay for some things using checks, but it doesn’t take long until he needs cash.

He tries going to banks to cash his checks, but none of them will take them. Which he gets, of course. He’s not their customer; how would they know if he actually had the money? And, to their credit, he doesn’t.

Still, he tries. He tries to play the confident businessman, explaining to the bank teller that he needs to take some clients out for dinner. He even tries the trick with the necklace his dad had used to get him the suit, but he’s faced with a stone faced manager instead of the young girl he had been talking to.

He tries explaining that his grandmother’s birthday is next week, and that he wants to get her something nice. He claims that he’s a student with a midterm coming up and that his books were stolen. He even coughs wetly into a dirty rag, pretending to be sick.

“Please, it’s just five dollars, no one would have to know,” he pleads.

The woman gives him a hard look. “I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding it at all. “but we are not allowed to take checks from people we don’t know.”

Stiles leaves the bank, throwing his rag in the trash as he walks, thinking. The illness might have been fake, but the plea was not. He really is in desperate need of cash. If he doesn’t find out a way to get money soon, he has to go home. And he really does not want to do that. He just wants to remember the happy family they used to be. He doesn’t want to see the reality that is their broken family.

As he’s walking, he notices a lot of people turning to look at something. Or someone, he quickly realizes. A tall, handsome man in a pilot’s uniform is stepping out of a car, and he’s clearly the one getting the attention of the people around him.

Two young children, a boy and a girl, are walking up to him, their mother following closely behind.

Stiles steps closer.

“Can I have your autograph?” the girl asks shyly.

The pilot smiles. “You betcha.”

“Can I have your autograph too?” the boy asks.

“You gonna be a pilot?” the pilot asks, bending to write his name on the piece of paper the boy is holding.

“Uh huh,” the boy says, smiling brightly.

“All right, then,” the pilot says, ruffling the boy’s hair. “Work hard in school.”

Stiles is intrigued by the scene that has just unfolded in front of him, an idea forming rapidly in his head as he watches.

***

_“Dear dad, I have decided to become an airline pilot. I have applied to all the big airlines and I have several promising interviews lined up. How’s mom? Have you called her lately? Love, your son, Stiles.”_

***

“Hello,” Stiles says to the receptionist. His hair is slicked back, he’s wearing black rimmed glasses and there’s a camera hanging around his neck over the white button up tucked into his pants. He looks like a geeky high school student.

“I’m John Black from Murrow High School and I have an appointment with Mr. Morgan?” he says in one long breath.

The receptionist, a fairly pretty middle aged woman with brown hair and kind eyes smiles up at him warmly. “You’re the young man who’s writing the article for the school paper,” she says, nodding.

“Yes ma’am that’s me,” Stiles says, nodding rapidly. “I want to know everything there is to know about being a pilot.”

She smiles again and tells him to take a seat. “Mr. Morgan will be with you soon.”

And sure enough, soon, Stiles is walking down a hallway after a large man – Mr. Morgan – asking question after question, perfectly playing the role of overly interested student.

“What airports does Pan Am fly to? What does a pilot make in a year? And who tells them where they’re going to fly to?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Mr. Morgan says, turning to look at Stiles, hand raised. “Slow down. Just take them one at a time.”

Stiles nods eagerly. “All right, what does it mean when one pilot says to another pilot: “What kind of equipment you on?””

“They want to know what kind of aircraft you’re flying; DC-8, 707, Constellation.”

Stiles nods, writing it down in his notebook. “And what about those I.D. badges I’ve seen pilots wear?”

“Well, every pilot has to have two things with him at all times,” Mr. Morgan explains. “One is his airline personnel badge. It looks just like this one here, from Pan Am.” He points to his chest where Stiles can see a badge clipped to the front pocket of his jacket. “The other thing is his FAA license, and that looks just like this.” He pulls out his wallet and grabs a piece of paper that he shows Stiles.

“Oh, sir, do you think I could make a copy of this to put into my article?”

Mr. Morgan smiles at him. It reminds him of the way his father used to smile. He tries not to think about it. “Oh, John, you can have that one,” he says. “It’s three years expired.”

Getting back into character, Stiles continues on. “Aw, thanks! And what about your I.D. badge? You have an extra one I can borrow?”

The man shakes his head, chuckling. “Oh, no, I can’t help you there. Those are special-ordered from Polaroid. The only way to get one of those is to become a real live pilot for Pan American Airways.

Mr. Morgan lets him take a picture of it.

***

The next day, Stiles finds himself at a payphone, using the last of his change to make a call. He dials the number he had found in the phonebook and holds the phone to his ear, listening to it ring. Around him, the city keeps going; cars honking, people talking, a whistle blowing somewhere in the distance.

“Pan Am, how may I help you?” a woman on the other line answers.

Stiles clears his throat and answers in his best southern accent, “Yeah, hello. I’m calling about a uniform?”

“Hold for purchasing,” the woman says.

“Thank you,” Stiles replies as he’s connected to a different person.

“Purchasing,” a different woman says.

“Hi,” Stiles says, giving himself one final second to get in character. He really needed this to work. He’s gone through all his notes, written down exactly what he needed to say, and still, he’s nervous. “I’m a copilot based out of San Francisco. I flew a flight into New York last night, but the problem is I’m headed out to Paris in three hours.”

“How can we help you?” the woman asks politely.

“Well, I sent my uniform to be cleaned through the hotel and I – I guess they must have lost it.” He chuckles lightly.

“They lost a uniform. Happens all the time,” she says, and Stiles feels the tension in his shoulders bleed out. They believe him. “Just go down to the Well-Built Uniform Company at Ninth and Broadway. They’re out uniform supplier. I’ll tell Mr. Rosen you’re coming.”

Stiles hangs up and all but collapses against the side of the payphone booth. He lets out a long breath, relieved beyond belief.

A few hours, a lot of fumbling around the streets of New York, and asking for directions from a dozen annoyed New Yorkers, Stiles found himself at the Well-Built Uniform Company.

“You look too young to be a pilot,” Mr. Rosen says a while later, when Stiles is getting fitted for his uniform.

“I’m a copilot,” Stiles says, looking at himself in the mirror. He’s never been fitted for something before. The uniform fits his body perfectly. Wearing it, he looks – and feels – about ten years older than his sixteen years.

“Why so nervous?” Mr. Rosen asks, putting another pin in the leg of his pants.

Stiles chuckles. “How would you feel if you, uh, lost your uniform on your first week of the job?”

“Relax,” Mr. Rosen says. “Pan Am has got a lot of uniforms.” Stiles nods and steps down from the platform as soon as Mr. Rosen gives him the okay. “That’ll be 164 dollars,” he says.

“Great,” Stiles says slowly. “I’ll, uh, write you a check.”

“Sorry, no checks, no cash. You’ll have to fill out your employee I.D. number and then I’ll bill Pan Am. They’ll take it out of your next paycheck.”

Stiles smiles at his reflection. “Even better,” he says.

***

_“Dear dad, you always told me that an honest man has nothing to fear, so I’m trying not to be afraid. I’m sorry I ran away, but you don’t have to worry. I’m gonna get it all back now, dad. I promise. I’m going to get it all back.”_

***

Walking out the doors of the uniform company it’s like flipping a switch. Where before he had gotten dirty looks or indifference everywhere he went, now all eyes are on him, wondering where he’s off to.

“Are you a real live pilot?” a young girl asks, looking up at him with big eyes.

“I sure am, little lady,” Stiles says, crouching down with a smile. “What’s your name?”

“Celine,” she says, matching his smile.

“Celine, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says, shaking her little hand in his.

As he gets up to keep walking, Celine calls out after him, “It’s a pleasure to meet you too.” Stiles feels his smile grow even wider.

He goes back to the bank, a newly written check in his hands. No one questions him when he asks to cash it.

“That’s fifty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred dollars,” the woman at the bank says, smiling brightly at Stiles as she hands him the stack of bills. “You have yourself a great time in Paris.”

Stiles smiles at her. “I always do,” he says, getting up to leave.

He’s barely taken two steps before someone stops in front of him. “Excuse me,” the man says, and Stiles looks up slowly, praying that he hasn’t been caught. The man is smiling. “I’m Frank Modiger,” he says. “I manage this branch. I want to thank you for coming in and using this institution.” Stiles starts breathing again.

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Frank,” Stiles says, smiling. “I’ll be back again.”

***

“Have you stayed with us before?” the man behind the hotel desk asks.

“Uh, no, I’ve been primarily based on the west coast,” Stiles explains, gesturing sheepishly with his hands. “Is it all right if I write you a check for the room?”

“No problem, sir,” the man says with a tight, professional smile.

“Great,” Stiles says and takes out his checkbook. He pauses. “I was also wondering if I could write you a personal check?”

The man smiles again. “For airline personnel we cash personal checks up to one hundred dollars. Payroll checks we cash up to three hundred dollars.” Stiles freezes, pen poised over his open checkbook.

“Did you say three hundred for a payroll check?”

***

_“Dear dad, I’ve decided to become a pilot for Pan American Airways, the most trusted name in the skies. They’ve accepted me into their training program and told me that if I work hard I should earn my wings real soon. Please get in touch with Lydia Martin from the tenth grade. Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t take her to the Junior Prom. Love, your son, Stiles.”_

***

**July 1964**

Stiles spends a lot of time in his hotel room after that, alone with his checkbook and a used typewriter, experimenting with getting the ink just right. He goes out and buys a cheap model plane with a Pan Am logo on the tail.

He carefully separates the logo from the tail, holding it under running water until the glue gives, and fastens the logo onto his typewritten check. Holding it up to the light flowing in from the window, Stiles decides that it’s time for a test run.

He dresses in his Pan Am uniform and heads out, smiling and nodding at the people who look at him in admiration. He can definitely get used to this. It definitely feels better than the disgust and harassment he used to get from his fellow high school students. If only they could see him now.

“Hello, how are you?” the bank teller asks him automatically. Stiles gives her his most charming smile.

“Fine, thank you,” he says. “I have a payroll check I’d like to cash.” He pulls the check out of his pocket and slides it across the table to the teller.

“Certainly,” she says, grabbing the check and holding it up to the light.

Suddenly worried that she’s going to see right through him, and his check, Stiles opens his mouth. “Uh, excuse me,” he says, getting the teller’s attention again. “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen.” Stiles speaks with a breathy voice, keeping eye contact. She really does have beautiful blue eyes.

The teller blushes and laughs nervously. “Yeah, I do get that all the time,” she says with a smile, nodding. “How would you like it?”

Pleased beyond belief that his con had worked, Stiles buys dozens more model planes, using the hotel room bathtub to soak them all. Soon he has a stack of fake Pan Am payroll checks. Everything is going a lot better than he could ever expect.

That is, until he tries cashing a check in the hotel lobby one morning. “I’m sorry,” the man tells him. “We won’t have any cash until the banks open in an hour.” He looks apologetic, and Stiles nods. “But,” he continues. Stiles looks up. “Uh, I’m sure they could cash your check at the airport.”

Stiles gives him a funny look. “Who cashes checks at the airport?” he asks.

“Well, the airlines, sir,” the man explains. “They’ve always taken care of their own.”

***

Stiles has never been on a plane in his life. He’s never even been to an airport. He certainly didn’t expect for both of those things to happen in one day, though maybe he should have. It’s all a lot bigger than he expected, bigger than any of the train stations he’s been to. There are people everywhere, pilots and stewardesses, but mostly regular people going on vacations or business trips.

Voices regularly sweep across the airport over the P.A. system, updating flight times and announcing closing gates.

Stiles walks over to an airline counter, ready to ask the woman behind it to cash his check, but she starts talking before he gets a chance. “Hi, are you deadheading?” she asks.

Stiles stops, confused. “What?” he asks.

“Are you my deadhead to Miami?” she asks again.

“Mi –“ he starts, shaking his head. “Yes, yes,” he laughs. “Yeah, I’m your deadhead.” He’s found, when lying, agreeing is usually the way to go if you want to be believed.

“You’re a little late, but the jump seat is open,” she tells him.

Stiles chuckles lightly. “You know, it’s been a while since I’ve done this. Which one’s the jump seat again?”

She laughs and shakes her head, handing him a piece of paper with the gate and flight number on it. “Have a nice flight,” she says, smiling brightly.

Stiles makes his way to the gate and onto the plane. The plane, just like the airport, is a lot bigger than he thought it would be. He’s looking around the cabin in awe when a pretty woman suddenly appears in front of him. “Are you my deadhead?” she asks softly, smiling.

Stiles nods and follows her into the cockpit where he’s introduced to the pilots. “John, this is Captain Oliver and copilot John Larkin.” He nods in hello, stepping inside. “And this is Fred Tulley, flight engineer.” Stiles nods again, turning around in the cockpit, staring at all the different buttons and machines.

“John Taylor, Pan Am,” Stiles greets. “Thanks for giving me a lift, boys.”

“Go ahead and take a seat, John,” the captain says. “We’re about to push.”

Stiles would very much like to take a seat, if only he knew where it was. “What kind of equipment you on, DC-8?” the pilot asks.

“Uh, 707,” Stiles replies, distracted, still trying to locate the seat.

“You turning around on the redeye?”

“I’m jumping puddles for the next few months, trying to earn my keep running leapfrogs for the weak and weary,” he says with a chuckle. He barely understands the words that just left his mouth.

“No shame in that,” the pilot says, nodding like he knows exactly what Stiles means. “We all did it.” 

Stiles spins around, still trying to find the seat, but is quickly grabbed by the hips by the pretty flight attendant he had talked to. She pushes him to the side, reaches down and pulls a seat out from a small panel in the wall of the cockpit. “Have a seat,” she says. Stiles gives her a grateful smile.

“Thank you,” Stiles says, getting seated.

“Would you like a drink after takeoff?” she asks him politely.

Stiles is taken aback by the question, quickly stuttering out, “Uh, milk?”

He watches with great interest as the pilot and copilot talk back and forth to each other, making sure everything is ready for takeoff.

Suddenly, they’re in the air, and Stiles is holding on for dear life. He’s never felt a force like this in his life. Looking out the window as the plane shoots upwards to the sky, he finds himself intrigued and terrified. Mostly terrified.

***

_“Dear dad, today was graduation. I am now a copilot, earning 1400 dollars a month plus benefits. And the best part is, they tell me my family can fly for free. So tell mom to pack her bags and buy a new swimsuit, because I’m taking us all to Hawaii for Christmas. I love you, dad. Aloha, Stiles.”_

***

“Hello, deadhead,” the stewardess from earlier, Marci, as he’s now learned, says, smiling brightly.

“Hello,” Stiles replies.

“Enjoying your free ride?”

Stiles looks at her, considering. She’s a pretty girl, young, perfectly styled blonde hair. She’s nice. Stiles puts a hand in the pocket of his jacket, running his finger over the thin, fake gold chain. He hooks a finger through it and pulls it up, turning fully to face the girl.

“Marci,” he begins, gaining her attention. “Did you drop this?” He holds his hand up, fingers spread so she can see the necklace in all its glory, the little pendant hanging from it dangling lightly with the movement.

Marci’s smile widens, bringing a hand up to her mouth. “No,” she breathes, shocked.

“It must have slipped right off your neck,” he says, stepping closer and unhooking the lock, walking around behind her and fastening the necklace around her neck.

“No!” she says again, giggling, holding a hand to her neck to feel the jewelry.

That night, Stiles brings Marci to a Miami hotel room. They order room service and watch television, lounging together on the king sized bed, Marci tucked under Stiles’ arm, cuddling up to him. Halfway through the movie they’re watching, Marci moves up from under Stiles’ arm and kisses him firmly on the mouth. Things escalate quickly from that, clothes getting thrown everywhere, the TV hastily getting shut off. That night, Stiles loses his virginity.

***

The next day, once Marci is off on her next flight, Stiles takes one of his fake checks and his newfound confidence into town. This time, when he pushes open the door to Miami Mutual Bank, his confidence isn’t an act.

He stops in front of a teller with gorgeous brown hair. She looks young, maybe even new at the job. That’s exactly the kind of person Stiles needs.

“Hello,” she says, smiling up at him with a radiance Stiles has never seen in any other bank teller. Definitely new then. “Welcome to Miami Mutual Bank, how may I help you?”

Stiles puts on his most charming smile and looks at her. “My name is John Taylor,” he says, liking the taste of the name in his mouth in a way he never did with his real name. “I’m a copilot for Pan Am. I’d like to cash this check here, and then I’d like to take you out for a steak dinner.”

The teller blushes and giggles, and from there, it doesn’t take a lot to convince her of his interest in what it’s like working at a bank. Within five minutes he’s behind the counter as she shows him what happens to the checks that come in to the bank.

“And then we feed the checks into the MICR machine, which uses special ink to encode the account number on the bottom of the checks,” she explains eagerly.

Stiles is leaning against the table they’re standing next to, nodding with interest as she talks. “And where are these numbers?” he asks.

She holds a check up against her chest and uses her free hand to point out the little line of numbers at the bottom of the check.

Stiles lifts his own hand, pointing at the same numbers, finger close to the paper. The teller quickly moves the check, so he ends up touching her blouse covered chest instead. Stiles grins and the teller giggles.

“They’re called routing numbers,” the teller explains through her snickering.

“So, where do the checks get routed to?” Stiles asks, tilting his head to one side.

She stares off blankly into midair. “You know,” she says. “I don’t actually know.” She laughs again. “Nobody ever asked me that before.”

When Stiles gets back to New York, he goes to an auction selling off things from businesses that have foreclosed.

“Our next item up for bid is also from the Jersey Central Bank foreclosure. This is a MICR encoder, a machine used to encode bank checks. Do I have an opening bid?”

Stiles goes back to his New York hotel room with a used MICR machine. He has a lot of work to do.

***

**FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C. – September 1964**

“Our unknown subject is a paperhanger who started working on the east coast. The last few weeks the unsub has developed a new form of check fraud that I’m calling “The Float”. What he’s doing is he’s opening checking accounts at various banks, then changing the MICR encoding numbers at the bottom of those checks.” Derek Hale pauses. “Next slide, please,” he says, gesturing to agent Greenberg, manning the projector at the back of the room. “Next slide,” he says again, impatient when nothing happens.

“Uh, the remote thing is broken,” Greenberg says.

“You’ll have to do it by hand,” agent Boyd says.

“Agent Greenberg, it should be –“ Derek tries. “It should be the square button just on the side.” He can’t believe all these people are FBI agents.

“This carousel doesn’t work,” Greenberg says. “It’s a bad carousel you’ve got here.”

“Thank you, agent Greenberg,” Derek says through his teeth, ignoring the urge to bang his head against the nearest available surface. He already has to deal with his colleagues not respecting his work in financial fraud, now he has a useless assistant who doesn’t even know how to use a projector.

“Got to move it manually,” Greenberg mutters, finally managing to change the slide.

“This is a map of the twelve banks of the U.S. Federal Reserve. Slide. MICR-scanners at every bank read these numbers at the bottom of the check.” He uses his pointer to circle the numbers.

 “Slide. And then ship that check off to its corresponding branch.”

“Derek, for those of us who are unfamiliar with bank fraud, you mind telling us what the hell you’re talking about?” agent McCall asks, looking around smugly as several other people chuckle along with him.

Derek rolls his eyes. He just wants this briefing to be over. Sighing, he starts to explain. “The east coast branches are numbered 01 to 06. The central branches are 07, 08, 09, and so on.”

“You mean those numbers on the bottom of the check actually mean something?” McCall gets another round of laughter.

“All of this was in the report I files two days ago,” Derek says slowly. “If you change a 02 to a 12, that means that check, which was cashed in New York, does not go to the New York Federal Branch, but it’s rerouted all the way to the San Francisco Federal Branch. The bank doesn’t even know the check has bounced for two weeks.” The room is silent. “This means that our unsub can stay in one place, paper the same city over and over again while the checks circle the country.”

“You ought to talk to my wife,” McCall says. “She’s the one who balances the checkbook at our house.” As everyone laughs, Derek swallows the instinct to mention the rumors that McCall’s wife is leaving him. That his only son eloped with his girlfriend and is currently living somewhere in Georgia, refusing to talk to his father. Let them laugh. He has a job to do.

“Next slide,” he says.

***

**New York City, October 1964**

“Dad!” Stiles says, grinning when he sees his father walking through the restaurant towards him. Once he gets close enough his dad drags him into a tight hug.

“My son, the birdman,” Stiles’ dad says in awe, pulling back from the hug to look him up and down. “Some uniform, Stiles.”

Stiles grins. “What do you think?”

“It’s nice, very nice,” his dad says, nodding approvingly.

“Let’s sit.” Stiles gestures to the table they’re standing at and his dad pulls out his chair and sits. Immediately, a waiter is by their side, asking for their drink orders and putting down cutlery for their appetizers.

His dad picks up a fork and looks over at Stiles, confused. “This fork is ice cold,” he says.

Stiles ducks his head and shoots an apologetic look to the waiter. “No, no, dad, that’s a chilled salad fork,” he explains. “It’s a fancy restaurant, you know.” Stiles’ dad doesn’t look convinced.

Stiles sighs and reaches into his pocket. “Well, here,” he says, putting the small, black box down on the table, between them. He slides it closer to his dad. “I got you something.”

“What’s that?” his dad asks curiously.

“Open it,” Stiles encourages with a smile. His dad does, but doesn’t say anything. “You know what those are, right?” Stiles asks. “Those are the keys to a 1965 Cadillac DeVille convertible. Brand-new, dad.” His dad looks at him silently, an unreadable expression on his face.

“It’s red with white interior. Split seats, air conditioning, the works.”

“Are you giving me a Cadillac?” is what finally leaves his dad’s mouth.

“Yeah, I’m giving you a Cadillac,” Stiles says with a small laugh, nodding. “She’s parked downstairs.” He leans over the table to clap his dad on the shoulder. “When we’re done with lunch, why don’t you, you know, drive on over to mom’s house, pick her up, take a little joyride?”

Stiles misses the pained look in his dad’s eyes, but he doesn’t miss what he says. “Do you know what would happen if the IRS found out I was driving around in a new coup?” he asks slowly, closing the box and sliding it back over the table to Stiles. He feels the smile slip from his face. He hadn’t thought about it. He just wanted to get his family back. “I took the train here. I’m taking the train home.”

“All right,” Stiles says, taking the box off the table and returning it to his pocket. He hesitates for a second before speaking again. “I have plenty of money,” he says slowly. “You know, if you ever need anything…” He shrugs.

His dad’s eyebrows rise. “You worried?” he asks. “About me?”

“No,” Stiles answers quickly. “I’m not – I’m not worried.” He is.

“You think I can’t buy my own car?” his dad asks, offended. “Two mice fell in a bucket of cream, Stiles. Which one am I?”

“You’re that second mouse,” Stiles says softly. He looks up at his dad’s face for a second before looking away again. He bites his lip. “I went by the store today,” Stiles says quietly. He doesn’t know if he imagines the flinch on his dad’s face or not.

“I had to close for a while,” he admits. “It’s all about timing, Stiles. The government knows that. They hit you when you’re down. I wasn’t going to let them take it from me, so I just –” He pauses for a few seconds. “I just shut the doors myself. Called their bluff.” He shrugs. “Sooner or later they’ll forget about me.”

Stiles nods. “I – I understand,” he says. Then, quieter, almost a whisper. “Have you told mom?”

His dad sighs heavily. “She’s so stubborn, your mother.” Stiles gets a small smile from his dad at that. “Don’t worry,” he assures him. “I’m not going to let her go without a fight. I’ve been fighting for us –“ his dad gasps for air suddenly. His eyes seem shinier than they were a moment ago.

Stiles frowns, worried. “Dad?” he asks.

“Since the day – the day we met.”

Stiles leans over the table and whispers, “Dad, out of all those men, you were the one that took her home, remember that.”

“200 men, sitting in that tiny social hall, watching her dance,” his dad mutters quickly. “What was the name of that town?”

“Montrichard, dad,” Stiles replies.

“Yeah,” his dad nods. “I didn’t speak a word of French, and six weeks later, she was my wi –“

“She is your wife, dad.”

His dad clears his throat and waves a waiter towards them. “My son bought me a Cadillac today,” he says loudly. “I think that calls for a toast.” The waiter nods and fills their glasses with champagne. There’s soft jazz playing from somewhere in the restaurant. His dad takes a deep breath and raises his glass. “To the best damn pilot in the sky,” he says, voice cracking a little.

Stiles blushes, shaking his head. “It’s not what you think.” It really isn’t. “I’m just a copilot.”

His dad leans closer, speaks quieter. “You see these people staring at you? These are the most powerful people in New York City, and they keep peeking over their shoulders, wondering where you’re going tonight. Where you going, Stiles?”

He stares into his dad’s eyes. “Dad, nobody’s staring at me,” he insists.

“Someplace exotic? Just tell me where you’re going.”

“Los An – Hollywood,” Stiles says, forcing a smile. It was the first place he could think of.

“Hollywood?” His dad smiles back. He leans even closer than before. “Come here,” he says and whispers, “The rest of us are the real suckers.” He sits back in his chair and winks.

Stiles doesn’t say anything, but he has a sudden realization that while he may be able to fool everyone else, he’s not able to fool his dad.

***

**Hollywood, California – October 1964**

“Okay, so I got in this red dress and these high heels. I got a bra, like, out here,” agent Jordan Parrish gestures excitedly with his hands in front of his chest. “and I’m chasing these two Puerto Rican guys through the park. They’ve got a suitcase filled with bank robbery loot. And I’m screaming out, ‘FBI, freeze!’ and I’m reaching for my gun but I can’t find it in the bra. It was so damn big I thought I was gonna shoot my tits off.”

Parrish and the other agent on his team, Isaac Lahey, laugh. Derek stays silent, focusing intently on the road. “You know, that’s a funny story,” Parrish says. “People always laugh at that story.”

Derek sighs heavily. “Let me ask you a question Mr. Parrish. If you were having so much fun undercover, why did you transfer to bank fraud?”

Parrish is silent for a few seconds. “I didn’t transfer,” he says slowly. “I was censured and reassigned. It’s like being punished. I was punished. I screwed up in the field.” He turns his head away, looking out the window.

Derek scoffs. “What about you, Mr. Lahey? Were you … punished? For screwing up in the field?”

Lahey looks at Derek in the mirror from where he’s sitting in the backseat. He shakes his head, soft curls bouncing with the movement. “Oh, no,” he says, speaking softly. “I’ve never worked in the field before. I audited background investigations of Department of Justice clerical applicants.” And people say that Derek’s job is boring.

“Now that’s just great,” he says scathingly. “I ask for a team and they drag the bottom of the Pacific.”

“You mind if I ask you a question agent Hale?” How come you’re so serious all the time?”

Derek’s mind goes to fire and smoke and waking up at night covered in cold sweat, imagining that he can still hear screaming coming from that large, old house in the woods of California.

“Does it bother you, Mr. Parrish?” he asks, burying the images in the back of his mind.

“Yeah,” Parrish says after thinking about it. “Yeah, it does bother me.”

“Does it bother you, Mr. Lahey?” he asks to the backseat.

“A little, I guess,” he says with a shrug.

“Well, would you like to hear me tell a joke?” he asks, hands tightening on the steering wheel. In his peripheral vision he can see Parrish and Lahey looking at each other.

“Yeah,” Parrish said, nodding. “We’d love to hear a joke from you.”

“Knock, knock,” Derek says.

“Who’s there?” Parrish asks.

Derek pauses, eyes darting to the mirror and Parrish and back to the road before he answers. “Go fuck yourselves.”

The car ride is silent after that, and a few minutes later Derek turns in to the Tropicana Motel. He parks the car and they make their way towards the front desk, past a large pool surrounded by tanning women laid out in the sun, people enjoying their drinks, children playing in the water, a young man massaging sunscreen onto his girlfriend’s back.

“He cashed three checks, they all cleared,” the manager says. “I was going to deposit this one today.” He holds up a check to show them. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“No trouble, no trouble at all,” Derek assures him. “We’ll just take this check and be on our way, thank you.”

They turn to walk away when the manager speaks up again. “Good,” he says. “Because I don’t want my customers harassed.”

Derek stops in his tracks and slowly turns around. “What are you saying?” he asks slowly. “He’s still here?”

The manager opens a book on the desk and trails his finger down one of the pages. He looks up again and nods. “201,” he says.

“Thank you,” Derek replies.

***

Stiles is making his way up the stairs, a cardboard box filled with checkbooks and bottles of ink clutched in his hands. He steps to the side to allow the blind man living in the room next to him pass, being led by a nurse. “Hey, Mr. Emery,” Stiles says. “How are you?”

“Is that Stiles?” Mr. Emery asks loudly, turning his head in Stiles’ direction.

“Yeah, it’s Stiles,” Stiles nods with a laugh.

“Hey, Stiles, how are you?”

“How’s the knee?” Stiles shoots back.

“Come on,” Mr. Emery says, smiling. “I’ll race you right now.”

Stiles keeps laughing. “Take care,” he says.

“Okay, Stiles,” he chuckles, letting the nurse continue guiding Mr. Emery down the stairs.

***

“Eyeball the back? C’mon, this guy’s a pen and ink man.” Parrish fixes him with an incredulous stare. “A goddamn paperhanger. He doesn’t even carry a gun.”

“Why can’t we go with you, Derek?” Lahey asks.

“Just keep your eyes open,” Derek says. “Do your job and I’ll buy you both a Good Humor bar.”

They both roll their eyes at him. Derek walks away and locates the stairs that lead up to the second floor. He walks slowly, eyes trained in front of him as he removes his gun from its holster and holds it out in front of his body. As he reaches the top step he walks around the corner and down the hall. A maid gasps as she sees his gun. “It’s all right ma’am,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket for his badge. “FBI.”

He moves past her quickly, heading down the hall, muttering to himself. “201, 201, 201,” he whispers, reading the numbers on the doors.

Finally, he reaches 201. The door is unlocked when he tries the handle. He pushes it down slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. He touches the tips of his fingers to the wood of the door and gives a gentle push, making it glide open. He walks swiftly inside, gun up in front of himself. “FBI,” he says loudly, taking in the empty room.

There’s a typewriter standing on the desk by the window, boxes of blank checks and envelopes and ink standing next to it. He can see a MICR-machine on top of the dresser. There’s an open suitcase on the floor, clothes thrown in haphazardly. It looks like someone had been in the process of packing and then suddenly abandoned it.

The toilet flushes, and Derek spins around to face the closed bathroom door, raising his gun again where he had let it fall. “FBI,” he repeats, all but shouting it. Water starts flowing from the sink inside the bathroom, only to stop after a few seconds. Derek grips his gun tighter.

“Come out of the bathroom,” he says, and then, when there’s no response, “Step out of the bathroom!”

The handle rattles and moves slowly, the door pushing open. A man steps out, dressed in a fitted grey suit. “Hands on your head,” Derek says harshly, gesturing with his gun. The man ignores his gun, wiping his hands on the front of his suit jacket. He has brown hair that’s combed back away from his face. He looks young. Derek hadn’t expected his unsub to be this young. Or attractive.

“You know, that’s the new IBM Selectric,” the man says, pointing to the typewriter sitting at the desk. He’s holding a paper towel, drying water off his hands.

“Put your hands on your head,” Derek says again, louder.

“You can change the print in five seconds.” The man looks totally unconcerned with having a gun pointed in his face. Derek doesn’t understand it. He’s just supposed to be a paperhanger. He’s not supposed to be this cool and collected. Derek knows this guy is smart, but he hadn’t counted on this.

“Shut up,” Derek says through clenched teeth.

“Just pop out the ball.” The man shrugs, walking towards Derek

“Put your hands on your head,” Derek says, walking backwards. “Put your hands –“ He crashes into the dresser, sending a box of checks crashing to the floor.

“You know he’s got over two hundred checks here,” the man says. “A gallon if India ink for drafting.”

He? What’s he talking about. “Hands on your head!” Derek says again, grip tightening around his gun.

“He even has little payroll envelopes addressed to himself from Pan Am.” The man picks up a stack of envelopes, waving them around, looking back at Derek.

“Put it down,” Derek says. He’s getting tired of this game. “Put it down. Drop it!”

“Relax,” the man says, holding his hands in front of his body. “You’re late, alright? My name’s Allen. Barry Allen. United States Secret Service. Your boy just tried to jump out the window,” he turns and gestures toward the window behind him. It’s open, curtains hanging out, moving with the wind.

“My partner has him in custody downstairs,” he continues.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek says, not lowering his gun.

The man scoffs. “What, you think the FBI are the only ones on this guy? I mean, c’mon, he’s dabbling in government checks here. We’ve been following a paper trail on this guy for months now.” He looks at Derek like he’s totally clueless. Which, fine, he doesn’t. He didn’t know there were other people chasing this guy. He’s still not totally sure he’s not being scammed.

“Hey,” the man – Allen – says. “You mind taking that gun out of my face? Please, really, it makes me nervous.”

Derek reluctantly lowers his gun, but doesn’t lose his suspicions. “Let me see some credentials,” he says, holding out his free hand.

“Yeah, sure,” Allen says with a roll of his eyes. “Take my whole wallet.” He clears his throat. “You want my gun too? Come over here and take my gun.” Derek holds his free hand out and takes the wallet. He’s looking down at it, brown leather, when Allen speaks again.

“Hey, just do me a favor,” he says. “Look out the window. My partner’s walking him to the car as we speak.” Allen steps up to the open window and moves the flapping curtains out of the way. Derek finds himself following. Sure enough, there are two men walking to a black, discrete car. The younger has a hand on the older man’s back, guiding him into the car seat. “Old guy almost pissed in his pants when I came through the door,” Allen says with a grin. “He jumped right through the window onto the hood of my car.”

Allen leans out the window, calling down to the younger man. “Hey, Emery?” he says. The man turns and looks up towards the window.

“Yeah?” he yells back.

“Call the LAPD again, I don’t want people walking through my crime scene.” Allen doesn’t wait for a response, just straightens up and closes the curtains, coughing into his elbow and walking away. He walks over to a room service cart, picking up a pitcher of water and an empty glass.

“I didn’t expect the Secret Service on this,” Derek admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t worry about it,” Allen says, filling the glass with water. “Well, what’s your name?” He empties the glass quickly before putting it down on the cart and turning to face Derek again.

“Hale,” Derek says. “Derek Hale.”

“Mind if I see some identification?” Allen asks. “You never can be too careful these days.”

Derek nods and hands Allen his credentials, watching as he checks them, nodding. Allen looks up finally, hazel eyes meeting Derek’s green ones. He hands the credentials back, and Derek puts them back in his jacket. “Well, tough luck,” Allen says with a small shrug. “Five minutes earlier you would’ve landed yourself a pretty good collar.”

“It’s alright,” Derek says, chuckling. “Ten seconds later and you’d have been shot.” Allen snorts, smiling. The agent starts gathering checks and bottles of ink into one of the cardboard boxes, hoisting it up in his arms.

“Mind if I come downstairs with you?” Derek asks. “I – I’ve got to take a look at this guy.”

Allen smiles again. “Sure thing,” he says. “Just – uh – do me a favor and sit tight for a second while I get this evidence downstairs. I don’t want some maid walking through here and making the bed.” Derek laughs, nodding. “LAPD should be here any second.” Allen turns to the door and is halfway to it when Derek stops him.

“Wait,” he says. Allen turns back, arms straining against the weight of the box.

“Your wallet.” Derek holds it out to the agent, having forgotten to give it back.

Allen smiles. “You hang onto it for a minute,” he says. “I trust you.” He winks before turning back around and disappearing out the door. Derek sinks down onto the hotel bed, holding the wallet in his hands. He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a long breath. He can’t believe it’s over. The guy he’s been looking for for weeks has finally been caught.

“Secret Service,” he breathes out through a laugh. Looks down at the wallet in his hands. It feels thick, like it’s filled to the brim. There’s suddenly a heavy feeling in his stomach. He never looked at agent Allen’s badge. Opening the wallet, Derek finds pieces of paper stuffed into the wallet pockets. Looking up, he finds that most of the bottles and cans in the room have had their labels torn off.

He shoots up off the bed and rushes to the window, throwing the curtains to the side. He leans out the window, sees Barry Allen running down the street, clutching the cardboard box of evidence in his hands. “Hey!” Derek yells out, and the man looks up at the window, never stopping his run.

Derek moves back into the room, throwing the wallet at the opposite wall. “Oh god damn it!” he yells.

***

Stiles is running, weaving down streets and past people, holding on to a cardboard box for dear life. His heart is beating like crazy. Being in the bathroom, taking a piss and suddenly having someone barging in, yelling ‘FBI’ at the top of their lungs was enough to give anyone a heart attack.

He had to think faster than he ever had in his life, constructing a plausible lie in his head even as his heart was trying to beat out of his chest as he was washing his hands. He had never been comfortable around guns, and having one trained at his face for minutes while trying to convince an unfairly attractive FBI agent – Derek Hale – that he was a Secret Service agent named Barry Allen was not exactly ideal conditions for thinking fast. He thanked god that Hale didn’t seem to know who the Flash was, as it was the first name that had popped into his head.

He grins to himself thinking about it. It’s kind of like he has his very own secret identity. Hiding from cute FBI agents, running all over the country, flirting with pretty girls and trying his best not to think too much about the confusing feelings he seems to be having about boys. His heart had done a funny little jump at some point during his conversation with Derek. He’s not totally sure it was just from fear.

He’s been noticing it over the past few weeks. It’s something he never thought about in the safety of his own home, watching his mother and father be happy. He always imagined that that’s how he would end up too; marrying a cute girl and living happily ever after. He’s never thought about boys like that. He’s thinking about it now, though, half running down the mostly unfamiliar streets of Los Angeles, looking over his shoulder and expecting a bunch of police cars to appear and surround him any second.

No one comes after him.

***

“It was stupid, I made a stupid mistake,” Derek says, throwing his hands up. He’s sitting in the boss’ office – Alan Deaton, a tall, bald, dark skinned man with fierce eyes. Lahey and Parrish are standing behind Derek, near the door.

“Forget about it,” Deaton says, waving it off. “There are hundreds of unknown subjects out there.”

Derek grits his teeth together. He can’t just forget about it. “I can get this guy, Alan. The worst thing a paperhanger can do is show his face.”

Alan shakes his head. “I read the report. ‘Six feet tall, brown hair, 27 to 30 years of age, 160 pounds.’ This could be almost anyone.”

“I heard his voice, Alan, I saw his face. There’s nothing for him to hide behind anymore.”

Alan sighs heavily before nodding, fixing Derek with a hard look. “Just be careful,” he says. “You’ve got ten years in. Nobody bothers you down on the first floor. You practically wrote the book on bank fraud. That’s the kind of thing that can make you section chief someday. Just don’t put yourself in this kind of position.”

Derek stands up and leans over the desk. “What kind of position?” he asks slowly.

Alan sighs again, but doesn’t skirt around his point. “Position of being humiliated,” he says bluntly.

Derek stands up and turns, walking towards the door. He stops with his hand on the handle. He turns around and stares at Alan. “Alan,” he starts. “Would you like to hear me tell a joke?”

Alan sighs and shrugs. “Yeah, sure,” he says.

“Knock, knock.”

***

**December 1964**

Stiles is back in New York, once again in Mr. Morgan’s Pan Am office, dressed as a high school student under the guise of writing a follow up article. “So, my – my next question is, when a pilot retires, uh, Pan Am sends them a check every single month?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mr. Morgan replies, distracted. He’s sitting at his desk, a newspaper spread across the flat surface. “The pension program sends a check and benefits.”

“How much is that check for?” Stiles asks, pen poised over his notebook.

“Um, kid?” Mr. Morgan says, looking up and frowning at Stiles. “I’m really not in the mood for this right now. This Skywayman’s driving me crazy.”

“Who’s the Skywayman?” Stiles asks, interested. He’s never heard of him.

Mr. Morgan buries his face in his hands and groans. “Ah, some nut that’s flying around the country posing as a Pan Am pilot. There’s a column about him in the paper today.”

He picks up the newspaper and hands it to Stiles, who reads quickly. The newspaper is writing about Stiles. He can’t believe it.

“I keep telling them it’s not my problem,” Mr. Morgan continues. “This guy doesn’t even fly Pan Am. He flies everybody else, flies United, TWA, Continental, Eastern …”

“The Skywayman,” Stiles whispers, awe clear in his voice.

“The newspaper loves this clown. They call him the James Bond of the sky.” Mr. Morgan scoffs at the name, shaking his head.

Stiles looks up from the paper at that, a smile quickly covering his face. “Did you say James Bond?”

***

The next afternoon, Stiles goes to the cinema and watches the latest James Bond movie. The day after that he’s getting fitted for a suit.

“Now, you’re sure this is the suit, right?” he asks the tailor, who nods.

“Positive. It’s the exact suit he wore in the movie.”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “I’ll take three.”

The tailor smiles, writing down the order. “Certainly, Mr. Fleming. Now all you need is one of those little foreign sports cars that he drives.”

That same day, Stiles speeds out of a car dealership in one of those little foreign sports cars. He spends hours cruising around New York.

***

Stiles gets back to his hotel late that night. He’s standing in front of his door when he feels a tingle on the back of his neck. He turns around, and sees a beautiful woman standing further down the hall. She’s staring at him, a small smile on her lips. She looks familiar.

“Hi,” Stiles says quietly. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

She shrugs. “Maybe.”

She turns fully towards him, walking slowly down the hall to where Stiles is standing. “A couple of years ago I was on the cover of Seventeen.”

Something in Stiles’ mind clicks. “You’re that model, right? Caitlin. The guys used to put your picture in their lockers.” Stiles grins.

“Isn’t that your silver car I saw parked out front?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Yeah, one of them,” Stiles says, shrugging. “So, you think I could get an autograph?”

She smiles. “Do you have a pen in your room?”

***

They’re in Stiles’ room. Stiles turns around to look at Caitlin, opening his mouth to speak, but before he gets a chance she’s kissing him. Stiles melts into it, letting her lead the kiss. When they break apart, Stiles says, “I thought you liked girls?” He remembers it now, the headlines, the talk of ‘lewd behavior’ and ‘bad role models’.

She smiles. “I do like girls,” she says, as if it’s completely normal. Is it? Stiles doesn’t know, he’s never thought about it. “Do you?”

“Absolutely,” Stiles nods.

“Great,” she says, leaning in and kissing Stiles once more.

When they break apart, Stiles speaks again. “So you also like boys?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” Caitlin answers, smiling. She sounds amused. “Do you?”

Stiles stares at her, mouth open. “Uh,” he says. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s been trying not to think about it. He doesn’t know what that kind of admission would mean. Agent Derek Hale's face appears in his mind unwillingly, all stubble and hard lines where Caitlin is smooth and soft. He doesn't know which one he'd prefer. She takes pity on him and moves back in for another kiss instead of waiting for his answer.

Stiles’ eyes are closed, leaning into the warmth that is the woman in front of him, when suddenly, she’s gone.

Stiles’ eyes blink open, confused. She’s walking over to the nightstand, picking up a deck of cards. She smiles over at him. “A man like you can buy anything he wants,” she says softly. “He buys a deck of cards at the hotel gift shop.”

“Do you want to see a card trick?” Stiles asks, smile crooked and nervous. He doesn’t know where she’s going with this.

“How much did you pay for these cards?” she asks, taking them out of their box and shuffling them.

Stiles rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, 55 cents, I think?”

She smiles again. “And if they sold me in the hotel gift shop – how much would you pay?”

Stiles frowns. “I’m sorry how much – how much would I pay for what?”

“The entire night,” she says breathlessly. “How much would you pay me for the entire night?”

“Caitlin I – I really don’t know,” Stiles admits.

“Don’t be scared,” she says, walking closer. Her eyes are a clear, piercing blue. Stiles finds himself longing for green eyes instead. “Make me an offer.”

“300 dollars?” Stiles asks, hands buried in his pockets. He’s hunching his shoulders, making himself look small. He knows what he looks like; young, insecure. He can’t help it. He’s never done this kind of thing before, and with the conversation they just had, well, Stiles feels vulnerable. He doesn’t want to be alone.

She throws a card at him. “Go fish,” she says, smiling at him.

“Uh, 500 dollars?”

She shakes her head, throwing another card. “Go fish.” She moves closer.

“600.”

“Go fish,” she laughs, now barely a foot away from Stiles.

“1000 dollars,” Stiles says, and she stops.

“Okay,” she nods. “1000 dollars.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” He turns to walk towards the door, hands digging through his inner pocket for the stack of checks he keeps there. There’s a hand on his arm, stopping him.

“Wait a second,” Caitlin says, spinning Stiles around to face her. “where are you going?”

“I’m going downstairs to cash a check,” Stiles explains, holding a check for 1400 dollars.

Caitlin scoffs. “You think this hotel is going to cash a 1000 dollar check at 3 am?” She’s shuffling the deck of cards still in her hands.

“It’s a New York Savings and Loan check. It’s like gold. They’ll cash it.” Stiles is sure of it.

“And don’t you think they might get a little suspicious? Let me see that.” Stiles shows her the check. She nods. “It’s a cashier’s check,” she says. “Endorse it over to me.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, I couldn’t do that. See, this check is for 1400. We agreed on 1000.”

She immediately drops the cards. Stiles looks down at the paper laying in a bunch on the floor. When he looks back up she’s pulling a wad of cash from her cleavage. “Why don’t I give you back 400, and you give me that check?”

Stiles smiles. “Even better.” And then they’re kissing again, moving together, back towards the bed.

***

**December 1964**

Derek is sitting in a self-service laundromat a few days before Christmas, waiting for his laundry to finish washing. He’s in between two annoyed looking middle-aged women.

Soon after that, Derek is standing by the washing machine he was using, pulling pink shirts out of the machine. Turns out, a small red sweater had somehow made its way into his load. He sighs heavily.

“Does this belong to anybody?” he says loudly, holding up the sweater. The woman next to him grabs it and puts it in her basket.

This day can’t possibly get any worse.

***

**Christmas Eve – 1964**

A few days later, on Christmas Eve, Derek is alone in the office. Everyone else has already gone home to their families. Derek doesn’t have a family to go home to.

He’s studying fingerprints he’d pulled off a check the day before when the phone rings.

He picks up, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder. “This is Hale, merry Christmas,” he says, not looking away from the prints in front of him.

“Hello, Derek,” a familiar voice answers. He drops the prints onto the desk and grabs the receiver, holding it more firmly to his ear.

“Hello,” he says. “Barry Allen, Secret Service.”

“I’ve been trying to track you down now for the last couple of hours,” Allen says.

“What do you want?” Derek asks, annoyed. He has work to do.

“To apologize for what happened down in Los Angeles.”

“Oh, no, no, no, you don’t apologize to me,” Derek says, shaking his head at the empty office cubicles surrounding him.

“Do you always work on Christmas Eve, Derek?” Allen sounds tired. Lonely. Derek knows only too well what that sounds like.

“I volunteered,” Derek says. “So men with families could go home early.”

“You looked like you were wearing a wedding ring out in Los Angeles. I thought maybe you had a family.” Derek looks down at the ring on his finger. Sometimes he forgets. He wears it to make himself remember.

“No, no family,” Derek says. Not anymore. “You want to talk to me, let’s talk face to face.”

“Alright,” Allen agrees. “I’m at my suite at the Stuyvesant Arms, room 3113. In the morning I leave for Las Vegas for the weekend.”

Derek already has his notebook open, pen scribbling. Then he stops. “Think you’re going to get me again?” he asks. “You’re not going to Vegas. You’re not at the Stuyvesant Arms. You’d love for me to send twenty agents out on Christmas Eve. We barge into your hotel, knock down the door so you can make a fool out of us all.”

***

“I’m really sorry if I made a fool of you. I really am,” Stiles says. He is. Derek Hale seems like a good guy. Stiles never wanted to hurt anyone.

“Uh-huh, no!” Derek spits.

“No listen, I really am –“ Stiles starts to insist before Derek cuts him off.

“No, no, you – you do not feel sorry for me. The truth is, I knew it was you. Now, maybe I didn’t get the cuffs on you, but I knew.”

He didn’t. Stiles knows that. Derek knows that.

“People only know what you tell them, Derek,” Stiles says sadly. He’s sitting in his hotel suite, staring out the window at the quiet city. There are lights visible in almost every building he can see, but no people on the streets below him. He’s never felt as alone as he does right now. He’s never spent Christmas away from his family.

“Well, then tell me this, Barry Allen, Secret Service. How did you know I wouldn’t look in your wallet?”

“The same reason the Yankees always win,” Stiles says. “Nobody can keep their eyes off the pinstripes.” Stiles smiles sadly at the memory of what his father had once told him.

“The Yankees win because they have Mickey Mantle. No one ever bets on the uniform.” Stiles closes his eyes and tries to imagine the look on agent Hale’s face.

“You sure about that, Derek?” he asks, eyes still closed.

“I’ll tell you what I am sure of. You’re going to get caught. One way or another. It’s a mathematical fact. It’s like – it’s like Vegas. The house always wins.”

Stiles sighs, opening his eyes. “Well, Derek, I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he says.

“You didn’t call just to apologize did you?” Derek asks, suddenly laughing.

Stiles sits up straighter in his chair, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“You – You have no one else to call.” Derek keeps laughing. Stiles hangs up, an uneasy feeling in his stomach at Derek's words.

Less than an hour later, Stiles leaves the Stuyvesant Arms, suitcase in hand. He heads to the airport. No one comes after him.

***

**January 1965**

A few weeks after Christmas, Derek is sitting in a diner, drinking a cup of coffee and pouring over a list he’s just received. On it is the name and phone number of every criminal in the United States named Barry Allen.

A waiter walks up to him and fills up his coffee cup. Derek doesn’t look up from his list.

“Are you a collector?” the waiter asks from above him.

“Of what?” Derek asks distractedly, taking a long sip of his coffee.

“Captains of the cosmic ray, the lands of the Golden Giants, I’ve got them all.”

Derek looks up, annoyed. “What are you talking about?”

“Barry Allen,” the waiter explains, gesturing with the pot of coffee towards Derek’s list of names. He continues after a breath. “The Flash.”

He starts to walk away. Wheels are spinning in Derek’s head. He frowns deeply, thinking. “Wait, kid, kid, kid,” he says, getting the attention of the waiter who turns back to look at him.

“You mean like the comic book?” Derek asks.

“Yeah,” the waiter says. “The comic book. When he’s not the Flash that’s his name. Barry Allen.”

Derek nods. “Thank you.” He quickly finishes the coffee and gets up, throwing ten dollars down on the table and gathering up his list.

Locating the nearest payphone, Derek immediately calls Parrish’ office phone. As soon as he picks up, Derek starts talking. “He reads comic books. Barry Allen is the Flash,” he says breathlessly.

“Derek, slow down, slow down,” Parrish says. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“He’s a kid,” Derek says. “Our unsub’s a kid. That’s why we couldn’t match his prints. That’s why he doesn’t have a record. I want you to contract NYPD for every all-points juvenile runaways in New York City. And don’t forget the airports. He’s been kiting checks all over the country.”

“Why New York?” Parrish asks.

“The Yankees,” Derek says, groaning. “He said something about the Yankees.”

***

**Long Island, New York – February 1965**

“So, where are we on the list?” Derek asks as they walk up to the suburban home they’re standing in front of.

Lahey looks down at the list they’ve brought, running his finger down the side of it until he finds the right name. “Number 53, Stilinskay,” he says.

Derek rings the doorbell. A few moments later, the door opens, revealing a brown haired woman with a kind smile.

“Good morning, ma’am, we’re the FBI agents who called.”

“Ah, yes,” she says, nodding. “I’ve been waiting. I hope you’re hungry. I put out the Sara Lee.”

Mr. Stilinski leads them into the sitting room and tells them to make themselves comfortable before disappearing further into the house. She comes back quickly, carrying a tray of cake and coffee cups.

They start talking over cake and coffee, but Derek is itching to get into the real reason they’re here. To ask about her runaway son.

“My husband Adrian is a lawyer,” Mrs. Stilinskay says with a smile. Derek sees his opportunity and takes it.

“And what about your first husband, Mrs. Stilinskay?”

“Stilinski,” she corrects. “But I prefer to be called Harris.”

“John William Stilinski. It says here he was in the service. Did you two meet during the war?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Stilinski confirms. “I lived in a very small village in France. Montrichard, the kind of place where they’ve never heard of Sara Lee,” she says with a small laugh.

“You filled out a missing person’s report for a runaway juvenile by the name John William Stilinski, jr.”

“Is Stiles okay?” she asks, concerned.

Derek frowns. “Stiles?” he asks.

“Ah, yes, it’s a nickname,” Mrs. Stilinski explains. “God knows he loves his father, but he wanted something that was just for him. So he came up with Stiles.”

Derek nods, storing that information away. “You’re aware he wrote some checks on a closed account at Chase Manhattan Bank?”

Claudia laughs. “Yes,” she says, smiling. “the police think he’s some kind of criminal.”

“What he did was a felony,” Derek says slowly.

“It was a 1000 dollars,” Claudia counters, waving it off. “Half the kids his age are on dope. Throwing rocks at the police. And they scare me to death because my son made a little mistake?” She’s shaking her head, reaching over to the table to grab a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She pulls a cigarette out of the pack and lights it up, taking a long drag. Derek notices the tension in her shoulders disappear.

She removes the cigarette from her mouth and blows smoke up into the air. “A 17-year-old has to eat. Has to have a place to sleep.”

“We understand ma’am. Would you happen to have a picture of your son?”

“Oh, yes, I have his old yearbook.” She gets up and walks over to the bookshelf at the back of the room, pulling out a large book. She brings it over to Derek and opens it, flipping through the pages quickly, looking for the right one.

“Ah,” she says finally, tapping a well-manicured fingernail against the top of the page, and sure enough, there is John William Stilinski, jr. Derek recognizes him instantly.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Derek says, standing up, addressing Parrish and Lahey. “We need to send out an all-office teletype. Our unsub’s name is John William “Stiles” Stilinski, jr. Age 17.” He’s moving towards the door as he speaks. They have no time to waste.

“Is Stiles okay? Is he in trouble?” his mother asks, sounding worried.

Derek stops with his hand on the door handle and turns to face Mrs. Stilinski. “Ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you. Your son is forging checks.”

“Forging checks?” she asks, confused. “Wait, I’m sure we can take care of that. I am working part-time at the church now.” She walks over to her purse and pulls out a pen and checkbook. “Just tell me how much he owes and I’ll pay you back.”

Derek sighs, one foot already out the front door. “So far it’s about 1,3 million dollars,” he says before closing the door in Mrs. Stilinski’s shocked face.

***

**Atlanta, Georgia – August 1965**

Stiles rents a house in Georgia over the summer. He goes out, makes friends and hosts parties. He kisses a boy named Danny, and spends the rest of the night blushing furiously every time their eyes meet.

He thinks a lot about Danny. And the conversation he had with Caitlin in New York. And Special Agent Derek Hale from the FBI, his black, unruly hair and his expressive green eyes. The way his suit had fit his body like a fucking glove. Stiles has a lot of confusing feelings that summer. Because he’s fairly certain that while he may be attracted to tall, strong men, he’s also still attracted to girls. And he doesn’t understand how he can be both. So, instead of thinking about it, Stiles hosts parties. He kisses girls and drinks alcohol and makes new friends.

It’s at one of these parties that Stiles finds himself walking through the house. Music is playing throughout the house, people are dancing, drinking, laughing. He hugs and nods to the people he passes, trying to keep his Italian knit sweater vest clean of alcohol and food.

A girl with blonde hair and bright red lips – Erica, Stiles remembers – comes running up to him, laughing, clearly drunk. “Stiles, come quick! Scott just fell into the conversation pit!” She continues laughing, leaning against the wall and sliding down to the floor.

That’s how Stiles ends up walking through the hallways of the local hospital. He asks a passing nurse is she can help him, but gets no response as she hurries past him.

“Thanks,” he mutters sarcastically as he keeps walking.

He rounds the corner to the empty receptionist’s desk. Leaning against it he waits for someone to come help him. He turns his head at the sound of voices further down the hall.

There’s a crying girl with dark blonde curly pigtails and a nurse’s outfit holding a tray of blood samples. There’s a doctor yelling at her.

“Do you understand how dangerous this is? Do you? Don’t stand there and cry just nod your head and tell me you won’t do it again.” She nods frantically. “Now dry up and get back to work.” The doctor disappears down the hall as the crying nurse makes her way to the receptionist’s desk, putting down the tray and drying her eyes.

“Hey, you okay?” Stiles asks, leaning over the desk and giving the nurse a sympathetic look.

“He told me to pick up the blood, so I did,” she says shakily, tears still running down her face. “But he never told me to label it.”

“Hey, it’s okay. Stop crying.” She doesn’t, so Stiles tries a different approach. “What’s your name?” he asks softly.

“Heather,” she whispers, looking up at Stiles through wide, wet eyes.

“Heather,” Stiles whispers back. “I wouldn’t worry. You know, these doctors, you know they don’t know everything.”

Heather shakes her head frantically. “It’s my first week and I think they’re going to fire me,” she says through fresh tears.

“No, no, no, nobody’s going to fire you, Heather,” Stiles says, trying to calm her down. “I bet you’re good at your job.”

Still shaking her head, she says, “I’m not.”

“I bet if I asked you to check on the status of my friend Scott McCall, you could do that for me in a second,” Stiles says with a smile, and she looks up.

Getting up from her chair, she walks over to the back wall and starts rifling through medical charts. She opens one up and reads slowly through her tears, “Mr. McCall fractured his ankle. Dr. Ashland is treating him in exam room seven.”

“You see that!” Stiles exclaims excitedly. “No problem!”

She gives him a small smile, revealing the braces fastened to her teeth. “This is the emergency chart,” she says. “See that blue star there? That means the patient has been diagnosed. And then after he’s been treated, we put a red circle here, see?” Stiles nods and listens intently, giving her his full attention as she explains.

“How do you like those braces?” he asks.

She touches her mouth self-consciously. “I guess they’re alright,” she says with a shrug.

Stiles nods. “I got mine off last year. Boy, I hated them.” He shakes his head slowly. “They were bottoms. You know, I still have to wear my mouth guard.”

“You have really nice teeth,” Heather says shyly.

“Thank you!” Stiles beams. “You have a pretty smile.”

Heather laughs, looking away.

“No, I mean it. I really think those braces look good on you!”

“Thank you,” Heather says, blushing.

“You’re welcome,” Stiles says, thinking. He doesn’t think he would mind getting to see Heather again, and he certainly wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. While he had enjoyed living the easy life, partying and drinking and kissing cute people all summer, he kind of wants to get back to something real. Or, well, something that everyone else thinks is real.

“Heather,” he says. “Do you know if they’re hiring here at the hospital?”

“I’m not sure,” Heather says, shrugging. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m a doctor,” Stiles says with a smile.

***

_“Dear dad. I’m getting off the road for a while. I’ve taken a night job at a hospital and met some really nice people. It feels good to have my feet on the ground and wake up in the same bed every night. Who knows, I might even find someone to settle down with.”_

***

 Two days later, Stiles has a forged diploma from Harvard and an interview at the hospital.

“Harvard Medical School. Top of your class. Southern California Children’s hospital. That’s a pretty impressive resume Dr. Conners.” The man interviewing him is nodding, clearly pleased at what he’s seeing. He looks up and gives Stiles a crooked smile. “But unfortunately the only thing I need is an emergency room supervisor for my midnight to eight am shift. Someone to babysit six inters and twenty nurses. But, well, I doubt that you would be interested in that.”

He sighs, as if sure that he’s going to watch a great doctor slip through his fingers.

Stiles smiles. “Well, in the past they always let me choose my own nurses.”

They let him choose his own nurses. The only one he cares about is Heather.  

The following days before Stiles starts his new job, he spends watching trashy medical soaps.

***

**September 1965**

He’s in his new office, leaning back in his chair and considering taking a nap, when Heather knocked on his door and entered, holding a stack of paper in her hands.

“Hello, Heather,” Stiles says, smiling tiredly up at her.

“Hello, Dr. Conners,” she beams back. “You need to sign these.” She puts the papers down on his desk and continues smiling.

“Thank you,” Stiles says, rifling through the papers absentmindedly.

Heather leans over his desk and smiles even wider. Stiles looks up, pen poised over the first paper in the stack. “Do you notice anything different about me?” Stiles frowns, looking her over. She looks about the same as usual, pink and white nurse’s uniform, dark blonde hair in pigtails, white smile – wait. “You got your braces off!” He exclaims, putting down his pen and grinning. “Come here,” he says, gesturing with his hands. “Let me look at you.”

“I’ve been trying to show you all night,” Heather giggles, stepping around to Stiles’ side of the desk.

“Wow,” Stiles breathes. “Good job.” He nods approvingly. “So, did it hurt when they took them off? Mine felt so weird after.”

Heather rubs her tongue over the flat surface of her white teeth. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Stiles asks with a grin.

“Yeah, feels incredible,” Heather agrees. She stares down at him, a smile still in place, showing off her straight, white, teeth. Stiles leans in, sees her smile fade as he gets closer. Their lips meet. Stiles has only kissed a handful of people in his short life, but he puts all that experience into this kiss. It doesn’t last long. He pulls away after a few seconds, looking up at Heather’s shocked expression.

“Oh my,” she says breathlessly.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” Stiles stutters, shaking his head. Rain is hammering against the windows outside, thunder rumbling loudly.

Heather puts her hands to his face, climbing up into his lap and kissing him frantically. Stiles flails for a second before putting one hand on her lower back and the other on the back of her head, drawing her in closer.

They’re interrupted suddenly by a voice coming in over the intercom. “Dr. Conners to the ER, Dr. Conners to the ER.” They jump apart, Heather leaning back against Stiles’ desk, still on his lap. Stiles stares up at the ceiling where he knows the speaker is, but he doesn’t move.

“Shouldn’t you go?” Heather asks, looking down at him with wide eyes.

Stiles breathes harshly, moving his eyes to look back at Heather, meeting her stare.

“No,” he says. “No, no, they have a staff doctor in the emergency ward. We’ll be fine.” He drags her back into a kiss, but Heather quickly pulls away again. She sits back up on the desk, putting a shoe against Stiles’ chest to keep him at bay.

“What if he’s in surgery?” she asks, worried.

“You think I have to go?” Stiles asks, frowning. Heather nods seriously.

***

“In here Dr. Conners,” the nurse says, gesturing him towards a bed at the end of the Emergency Room. The first thing Stiles registers when he walks behind the partition is blood. Lots and lots of blood. There’s a boy sobbing, clutching his leg. Stiles tries to identify what’s wrong but all he sees is the blood.

Stiles feels bile rising in his throat. He coughs, trying to force it back down. “Gentlemen,” Stiles says to the two medical students standing next to the bed. He coughs again. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Bicycle accident,” one of the students says. “Fractured tibia about five inches below the patella.”

Stiles nods, holding a hand up to his mouth. He looks at the other student. “Dr. Barnes, do you concur?” he asks, remembering the line from a medical show he watched a few days earlier. It made him sound like he knew what he was doing.

“With what, sir?” the doctor asks, giving him a weird look.

“With what Dr. Ashland just said,” Stiles says. “Do you concur?”

“It was a bicycle accident,” Dr. Barnes says slowly. “The boy told us.”

Stiles nods. “So you concur?” he asks again.

“Concur?” Dr. Barnes answers, confused.

Dr. Ashland clears his throat to get Stiles’ attention. “I think we should take an x-ray, then stitch him up and put him in a walking cast,” he says.

Stiles looks down at the leg again, feeling bile rising, quicker this time. “That’s very good Dr. Ashland, very good,” he nods. “Well, you don’t seem to have much need for me. Carry on.” Stiles gestures to the boy in front of them, still bawling his eyes out as the nurses try to hold him still.

Stiles retreats quickly as the doctors start wiping blood of the kid’s leg. He manages to hold himself until he is behind the nearest door, which turns out to be a janitor’s closet. He vomits into a bucket for five straight minutes before managing to get his stomach under control. He really should have found some other profession to scam his way into.

***

**New Rochelle, New York – September 1965**

“Make yourself at home,” John Stilinski, sr. says, holding the door open for Derek with one arm, a bag of groceries balanced in the crook of the other. He’s wearing a tired looking suit, matching the tired look on his face.

Derek does as he says, walking further into the small apartment, looking around. There are unwashed dishes stacked tall next to the kitchen sink. The living room table is littered with opened letters, from the looks of it, mostly bills. Next to the bills is an old pizza box, pieces of dried cheese stuck to the top.

“You’re not a cop,” Stilinski says, and Derek turns around, already digging through his jacket pocket for his badge.

“Special Agent Hale. FBI,” Derek says, holding the badge open so Stilinski can see it.

“You’re not a cop,” he repeats, shaking his head. “My landlord said you’re not a cop. Well, if you’re gonna arrest me, I’d like to put on a different suit if that’s okay with you.”

Derek shakes his head. “No, I’m not here to arrest you,” he assures him. “I’m looking for your son. He’s in trouble.” He pauses for a second, staring intently at Stilinski’s face for any reaction to his words. “Do you know where he is?” he asks.

Stilinski wets his lips, eyes darting to the side. “If I tell you where he is, you promise not to tell his mother?” he asks.

Derek raises his eyebrows slowly. “Sure,” he says.

Stilinski sighs heavily and looks directly at Derek when he speaks. “Stiles made a fake I.D. and enlisted in the Marine Corps,” he says. “He’s over in Vietnam right now. That kid is halfway around the world, crawling through the damn jungle, fighting the communists. So please don’t come to my home and call my boy a criminal.” His words are harsh, filled with emotion. His lie is convincing. It might have worked, if Derek hadn’t known what he knows.

“I never said he was a criminal Mr. Stilinski. I said he was in trouble. If you’d like to give me a call and talk, here’s my number.” Derek hands over his card and turns back to look at the envelopes on the table. One of them has a letter stuck halfway out of the envelope. ‘Dear dad,” it begins.

Derek flips it over and spots the return address.

‘Riverbend Apartments, 415 Landover Ave Unit #7, Atlanta, GA 30398’

He quickly writes it down in his notebook.

“You’re not a father, are you?”

Derek turns around to face Stilinski again. “Pardon me?” he asks.

“If you were a father you’d know, I would never give up my son.” He takes a step forward. “I would never give up my son,” he repeats, quieter.

Derek nods. “Yes, sir, I understand,” he says.”

He leaves quickly after that, walking down the street until he finds a payphone. He calls Deaton. “Alan, get this,” he says, flipping open his notebook. “Riverbend Apartments, 415 Landover, Atlanta, Georgia. Atlanta, Georgia. Yeah, I’m on my way to the airport. I’ll meet the team in four hours. Goodbye.” He hangs up, puts the notebook back in his jacket and steps closer to the street, raising his hand and trying to get the attention of a taxi.

***

“It’s okay,” Stiles says comfortingly, patting Heather where she’s hiding under the covers, creating a vaguely human shaped lump. “You don’t have to cry.”

“I’m so sorry, Stiles,” she sobs. “I can’t do this.”

“Heather, listen to me,” Stiles says insistently. “I don’t care if you’re a virgin alright? Really, I can wait.”

Those words cause Heather to peek out from underneath her hiding spot. “I’m not a virgin,” she whispers, tears glistening as they make their way down her face. “I had an abortion two years ago. My parents had a friend do it. A man my father plays golf with.” She disappears back under the cover. “And then when I got better they kicked me out of the house. I had an abortion and I wasn’t their daughter anymore.”

She throws the cover completely off of her and climbs up into Stiles’ lap. “I’m so sorry,” she says, crying with renewed intensity. “Please don’t be mad at me, please don’t be mad at me.” She buries her face in Stiles’ chest and he instinctively puts a hand on the back of her head, gently holding her against his body.

“No, no,” Stiles says.

“Please don’t be mad at me,” she repeats.

Stiles shushes her gently, rubbing her back comfortingly as he gets an idea. “Now, what if I spoke with your parents?” he asks quietly. “Maybe I can straighten things out, huh?” He just wants her to be happy.

She looks up at him through teary eyes. Shaking her head, she says, “I ask them all the time but they say I still can’t come home. And my daddy’s a lawyer.” She crawls further up in his lap and grabs his face, pulling him towards her and kissing him.

She kisses her way down his cheek and neck and Stiles says thoughtfully, “Heather, what if you were engaged to a doctor?”

Heather freezes. She pulls away slowly to look at Stiles. “What?” she asks, barely more than a whisper.

Stiles looks at her, and when he speaks, it’s not a lie. It’s not just a ploy to get what he wants. He’s speaking more truth than he has in the last year. “What if I went to your parents, and I spoke to your father. And I asked permission to marry you?”

***

Derek leads the raid on Stiles’ apartment in Georgia. When they get there, it’s empty.

“Nobody here,” Parrish says unnecessarily. Like Derek really needs the reminder. Like he doesn’t have a pair of perfectly good eyes.  

He’s looking around the room, mostly empty, save for a few bits of furniture. On the wall hangs a single picture frame, and as Derek gets closer to it he sees that it’s a framed medical diploma from Harvard Medical school. For Dr. John Conners.

***

**New Orleans, Louisiana – October 1965**

“Dr. Conners, are you Lutheran?” Mrs. Strong, Heather’s mom, asks politely. She’s sitting across from him at the dinner table. To his right is Heather, and to his left is Mr. Strong, Heather’s father.

Stiles, caught by surprise at the question, sputters for a second before regaining his composure. “Yes,” he says finally, smiling. “I am a Lutheran, but please, call me Stiles.”

“Stiles?” Mr. Strong asks, raising an eyebrow. “Unusual name.”

Stiles laughs. “Oh, yes, it’s an old nickname from medical school. I’ve gotten used to it, I guess.”

“Well, in that case, Stiles, would you like to say grace?” Mr. Strong asks with a polite smile that’s just a bit too tense to feel sincere. “Unless you’re not comfortable?”

“Absolutely,” Stiles says, and holds Heather’s hand in his own. Everyone around the table close their eyes and Stiles looks down. He clears his throat, and thinks. He’s never said grace before in his life. His parents were Christian but they rarely went to church. He opens his mouth and says, “Two little mice fell in a bucket of cream. The first mouse quickly gave up and drowned, but the second mouse, he struggled so hard that eventually he churned that cream into butter and he walked out. Amen.”

Stiles looks up at the people sitting around the table. Heather and her mother both look delighted, while Mr. Strong looks doubtful.

“Oh, that was beautiful,” Heather’s mom says, holding a hand to her chest. “The mouse he churned that cream into butter.”

“That’s right, thank you,” Stiles says with a nod and a smile as they start eating.

“So, Stiles, have you decided which hospital you want to work at here in New Orleans?” Mr. Strong asks.

Stiles clears his throat and looks up at the man. “Well,” he says. “To be quite honest I’m thinking about getting back into law.”

Mr. Strong’s fork stops halfway to his mouth and he looks up, astounded. “Oh my,” he says. “Are you a doctor or a lawyer?”

“Well, before I went to medical school I passed the bar in California. I practiced law for one year.” He holds up a finger. “Then I decided, why not try my hand a pediatrics?” He laughs.

Heather puts a hand to Stiles’ arm, beaming up at him. “You’re just full of surprises,” she exclaims.

“Yeah,” Stiles laughs.

“Oh my, a doctor and a lawyer. Well I’d say that Heather hit the jackpot,” Mrs. Strong says delightedly. “Where did you go to law school?”

Stiles grabs his napkin off of his lap and dries his mouth before answering. “Berkeley,” he says, and almost jumps as both Heather and Mrs. Strong gasp loudly. He stares between them.

“Berkeley,” Heather says. “Isn’t that where you went, daddy?”

“Maybe Stiles can come work for you?” Mrs. Strong asks. “You’re always saying how hard it is to find assistant prosecutors.”

Heather squeals excitedly. “Could he, daddy? Could he please, could he come work for you?”

Mr. Strong fixes Stiles with a calculating stare. “Was that snake Hollingsworth still teaching there when you went through Berkeley?” he asks slowly.

Stiles looks at him for a second before smiling. “Hollingsworth, yes! Grumpy old Hollingsworth, right? I’ll tell you, meaner than ever.” He takes another bite of his food.

“And that dog of his?” Mr. Strong continues. “Tell me, Stiles, what was the name of his little dog?”

Stiles is silent, thinking. If he doesn’t get this right, Mr. Strong will never trust him. He needs to convince him he’s the real deal.

He finally looks up, a somber look on his face. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Um. The dog was dead.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Strong says sadly. From the corner of his eye Stiles can see Heather having a similar reaction.

“How unfortunate,” Mr. Strong says. They go back to eating.

***

After making a few calls, Derek and his team go to the hospital where it turns out Stilinski has been working nights as a doctor. Derek steps into the empty office, Stiles’ fake name – Dr. John Conners – still written on the door. In his hands, Derek has the fake diploma. He stares down at it.

***

Stiles is sitting on a couch in Mr. Strong’s study. Across from him, in a comfy looking recliner, Mr. Strong is sitting, studying him intently.

“A doctor, a lawyer, a Lutheran,” Mr. Strong says slowly. “So, what are you, Stiles? ‘Cause I think you’re about to ask for my daughter’s hand in marriage, and I have a right to know.”

“Know what, sir?” Stiles asks curiously.

“The truth.” Mr. Strong pauses. “Tell me the truth. What are you doing here? What is a man like you doing with Heather?” He gives Stiles a hard look, as if trying to look right through him. Stiles tries to keep his face in check.

“If you want my blessing,” he continues. “If you want my daughter. I’d like to hear it from you now.”

Stiles takes a deep breath and leans forward. He puts his elbows on his knees and looks up at Mr. Strong. “The truth is, sir, that –“ he pauses. He holds his hands palms up.  “The truth is that – I’m not a doctor, I’m not a lawyer.” He laughs a little. “I’m not an airline pilot. I’m nothing, really. I’m just a kid who’s in love with your daughter.” He sits back on the couch, holding Mr. Strong’s stare.

Mr. Strong shakes his head and stands up from his chair. “No,” he says. He walks around the table between them and sits down next to Stiles on the couch. “You know what you are?” he asks. “You’re a romantic.” Stiles smiles softly down at his hands. “Men like us are nothing without the women we love. I must confess, I’m guilty of the same foolish whimsy. I proposed to Carol after five dates with two nickels in my pocket and holes in my shoes because I knew she was the one. So go ahead, Stiles.” He claps Stiles once on the shoulder and stands up, walking a few steps away before turning back towards Stiles, arms wide open. “Don’t be afraid. Ask the question you came here to ask me.”

Stiles stands up, takes another deep breath and speaks. “Sir, what would I have to do to take the bar here in New Orleans?” he asks.

Mr. Strong laughs, his whole body moving with his laughter. “No, the other question,” he says, grinning.

Two weeks later, Stiles passes the bar. Shortly after that, he and Heather start planning their wedding.

***

**Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean – December 1969**

On the flight back to America, Stiles has the window seat. Derek has the aisle seat, leaving an empty seat between them. Stiles has spent the first two hours staring out the window. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but in a way, that’s comforting. This view, this sky – it’s something he’s familiar with.

“Hey, Stiles?” Derek says suddenly, and Stiles looks over at him. “You know what I could never figure out?” Stiles holds his stare but doesn’t say anything. “How did you cheat on the bar exam in Louisiana?”

“Why, what’s the difference?” Stiles asks.

“Someone took the test for you, didn’t they?”

Stiles sighs. “Derek,” he says. “I’m going to prison for a long time. Seriously, what’s the difference?”

“It’s a simple question,” Derek says, holding his hands up in surrender.

Stiles looks away from Derek face and instead down at the tray table in front of him. “Are you going to eat that éclair?” he asks, nodding at the chocolate covered pastry on Derek’s table.

Derek looks down at it and then back over at Stiles. “Yeah, I’m saving it for later,” he says.

“You want to split it with me?” Stiles asks.

“No.”

Stiles is silent for a few seconds before speaking again. “Give me half of that éclair and I’ll tell you,” he promises. 

Derek looks over at him again and picks up the éclair. Never breaking eye contact he holds the pastry between two of his fingers and eats it in two large bites.

Stiles rolls his eyes and looks back out the window, ignoring Derek in favor of studying the clouds outside.

“I’m going to figure it out sooner or later,” Derek assures. Stiles ignores him.

***

“You’ll be working under Philip Rigby in corporate law,” Mr. Strong says, gesturing to the desk in front of him. “Why don’t you settle in, organize your desk?” Stiles sits down and spins a little in his chair. “We’re having lunch at 12.30 with the attorney general and Governor McKeithen himself.”

“Governor?” Stiles asks, looking up at Mr. Strong in awe. He looks back down at his desk, straightening out the nameplate. ‘John Conners – assistant prosecutor’ it says. Stiles smiles.

“Did we spell it right?” Mr. Strong asks.

“Sure did,” Stiles says, standing back up to shake Mr. Strong’s hand.

“Congratulations,” he says, smiling.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Welcome aboard.”

***

“This is a photograph of the defendant’s signature on a cancelled check. Here is an enlargement of that same signature.” Stiles holds up an enlarged photocopy of the check’s signature. “This matches the signature on the letters he wrote to Mrs. Simon, which discuss the possibility of defrauding the great State of Louisiana. Your honor. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is irrefutable evidence that the defendant is in fact, lying.” Stiles slams his hand down on the evidence table and then sits down.

Following the success of his medical training, Stiles had watched a bunch of crime movies, especially focusing on the courtroom scenes, prior to starting his new job.

The judge looks at him over his glasses. “Mr. Conners, this is a preliminary hearing,” he says slowly. “There is no defendant.” He gestures to the empty table next to Stiles’. “There is no jury.” He gestures again, to the empty jury stand on the other side of Stiles. “It’s just me.” He pauses again, leaning further towards Stiles. “Son, what in the hell is wrong with you?”

Stiles swallows heavily. Turns out, movies can’t teach you everything.

***

That Friday, Stiles sits down with the Strong family to watch ‘Sing Along with Mitch’. They’re all singing along to the first song – _Has anybody here seen Kelly?_ – while Stiles watches them, a tense smile on his face. He hasn’t seen a happy and loving family like this since his own fell apart. Slowly, he warms up to them, and soon, he’s singing along with them.

Later, when Stiles is on his way to the kitchen to get a glass of water, he stops in the doorway and watches Mr. and Mrs. Strong do the dishes together. He cleans and she dries, working in sync while humming along to the radio where Frank Sinatra croons out from the speakers. _Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you._

Stiles leans against the doorway, a soft smile on his lips as he remembers his own parents dancing to this song, in the living room of their old house. His smile slips off his lips as he remembers leaving that house for the last time, and how their family fell apart shortly after. He quickly turns and goes back to the living room.

***  

**November 1965**

The next time Stiles is in New York he goes looking for his dad. He doesn’t think it would be wise going home, but he knows his father sometimes goes to the local neighborhood pub, so he takes a cab there.

Walking in, it doesn’t take Stiles long to locate his father, sitting at the bar. He’s nursing a glass of whiskey, looking tired when Stiles walks up to him. He’s reading a letter.

“Dad,” he says, and his dad turns around.

“What are you doing here?” his dad asks, sounding confused.

“I came to see you,” he explains, beaming. He frowns when he notices the clothes his dad is wearing. It’s a postal service uniform. “What are you doing dressed like this?”

His dad shrugs, not looking him in the eye. “I took a job,” he says. “Government job. You see what I’m doing?” He gestures to the letter. “Do you have a good lawyer?”

Stiles smiles. “Well, I sort of am a lawyer now,” he shrugs.

His dad nods distractedly, taking another sip of his whiskey. “Look at this letter,” he says. “The IRS wants more. I had a deal with them, two penalties. They ate the cake, now they want the crumbs.” His dad shakes his head. “I want to sue them. They want the crumbs.” He looks up again, as if suddenly remembering Stiles is there. He stands up and grabs his glass and the letter and gestures towards a free booth. “Here, sit down,” he says.

“They’re trying to scare me,” he says as they’re walking to the table. “Intimidate me. You know what? I’ll make them chase me. For the rest of their lives.” He hugs Stiles tightly.

“Hey, it’s great to see you, dad,” Stiles says when they pull apart. “Sit down, I want to show you something,” he says, gesturing for his dad to sit and putting his briefcase on the table. He opens it and pulls out an envelope. “I came here to give you this,” he says, handing the envelope to his dad. “It’s an invitation to an engagement party.”

His dad looks down at the invitation, not saying anything. Stiles closes the briefcase and sits down across from his dad. “Dad, I’m getting married.” He grins at his dad and gets a tired smile in return. “Can you believe that? I’m getting married.” He leans over the table towards his dad. “You don’t need to worry about anything now, dad,” he promises, excitement clear in his voice.

“Listen. I’m getting a brand new Cadillac. I’m getting a sixty-thousand-dollar house. I’m getting it all back. All the jewelry, all the furs, everything, dad. Everything they took from us. I’m going to get it back.” He pauses and takes another look at his dad in his uniform. “Now, has mom seen you dressed like this?” he asks with a small laugh.

His dad shrugs a little. “She came to pick up some boxes,” he mumbles.

Stiles holds his hands up. “That’s okay,” he says. “Know why? ‘Cause she – she’s going to the wedding with us. I’m gonna get you a brand new suit, dad. One of those Manhattan Eagle, three-button, black pearl suits. You’ll look great.”

“Those are nice, yeah,” his dad admits. He sighs and shakes his head. “She won’t see me.”

“Well, have you tried to call her?” Stiles asks softly. “Why don’t you call her right now? Dad, why don’t you call her right now?” He reaches into the pocket of his uniform pants and pulls out a small handful of change, offering it to his dad. “Here, dad, just call her for me. You call her and tell her I’ve got two first class tickets to go see her son’s wedding.”

His dad sighs again. “Your mother’s married now,” he says. “To my friend Adrian Harris. They have a house in Long Island.” Stiles lets his hand drop to the table between them, shocked. He can’t believe his mom would do that to his father. “I had a FBI agent come see me,” his dad says, leaning towards him. Stiles looks up, shaking off his shock to focus on the words. “You got their number, son. The guy looked scared,” he whispers, grinning. “Unites States government, champ. Running for the hills. Pow! To the moon!”

Stiles gets up, shaking his head. “Dad, it’s over,” he says. “I’m going to stop now.”

“But you’ve – They’re never going to catch you, Stiles,” his dad says insistently. This is the most animated he’s been the whole time Stiles has been here.

He shakes his head again. “Dad, she wouldn’t do that.” His mom wouldn’t do that. His parents loved each other.

“Sit down,” his dad says.

“Why would she do that to you?” Stiles feels his breath coming fast. He’s still shaking his head.

“Sit, have a drink. I’m your father.”

Stiles looks at his dad, eyes shining with moisture that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “Then ask me to stop,” he says, almost begging. He leans down, hands on the table. “Ask me to stop,” he repeats.

His dad smiles sadly. “You can’t stop.”

Stiles turns, briefcase in hand as he heads for the door. His dad keeps talking. “Where’re you going? C’mon, Stiles, where’re you going? Where are you going tonight? Someplace exotic?”

Stiles doesn’t answer him.

***

**Christmas Eve – 1965**

Derek is once again in his office on Christmas Eve, eating quickly cooling Chinese takeout. His phone rings and Derek puts his fork down, gesturing to Lahey and Parrish, each sitting at their own desk, poised over their phones, ready to listen in.

“This is Hale,” Derek says. He can hear someone breathing on the other side but for the first few seconds there’s only silence.

“Hello, Derek,” he says eventually. “Merry Christmas.”

“How are you, Dr. Conners?” Derek asks.

On the other end of the line, Stiles laughs. He sounds tired. “Derek,” he says. “I haven’t been Dr. Conners for months now.”

Derek figured as much. “Well, I’m sitting here in my office on Christmas Eve, what do you want?”

***

Stiles is sitting in a mostly empty bar, alone, on Christmas Eve. He told Heather that he was going home to tell his parents about the wedding. He asked to borrow the bar’s phone and had called the only number he could think of. He sighs into the phone.

“Okay,” he says, nodding to himself. “I want it to be over. Uh – I want it to be over. I’m getting married, you know – settling down.”

“You’ve stolen almost four million dollars; you think we can just call that a wedding present.” Derek sounds amused and irritated at the same time. “No,” he says. “This isn’t something you get to walk away from Stiles.” Stiles thinks this might be the first time he’s heard Derek use his real name.

“I want to call a truce,” Stiles tries. He’s getting desperate. He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

“No truce,” Derek says. “You will be caught. You will go to prison. Where did you think this was going?”

Stiles doesn’t know. He never thought it would get this out of hand. He wants to say something – something clever, something smart. He opens his mouth and the only thing that comes out is, “Please leave me alone, Derek. Please.” He closes his eyes. He’s so tired.

“I’m getting close. You’re scared because I’m getting close. I know you – you rented that car in Shreveport and you stayed in that hotel on Lake Charles. You want to run, be my guest. Your checks don’t lie as well as you do.”

Stiles feels a sudden surge of anger in his chest. “Stop chasing me,” he demands.

When Derek speaks again, it’s softly. “I can’t stop,” he says. “It’s my job.”

Stiles feels the anger drain from his body as quickly as it had appeared. “It’s okay, Derek,” he promises. “I just thought I’d ask, you know?” He sighs. “Hey, merry Christmas, huh?” He hangs up.

***

“I love my job,” Derek says, grinning as he puts the phone down. He claps his hands together and turns to his team. “All right, let’s get every newspaper we can in Louisiana for the last two months.” He picks up the fork and resumes eating his Chinese food. It’s cold. He doesn’t care.

“What are we looking for?” Lahey asks.

“Engagement announcements, name of Conners,” he says.

“Conners? Come on Derek, the kid would’ve changed his name by now,” Parrish insists.

Derek shakes his head as he shoves another forkful of cold noodles into his mouth. “He can’t change it,” he says. “She thinks he’s Conners. If he loses the name, he loses the girl.”

***  

**May 1966 – New Orleans, Louisiana**

Stiles is wearing a white suit jacket and pressed black pants. Heather is wearing a beautiful flowery dress. Her hair is perfectly wavy, not a strand out of place. Tonight is their engagement party. Stiles is carefully pealing the label off of a champagne bottle, stuffing it in his pocket. It keeps his hands occupied. Keeps his mind from wandering too much.

He moves fluidly through the crowd, smiling and nodding and shaking people’s hands, thanking them for being there. He hardly knows any of their names. When he gets to the front door he finds Heather and her mother. He kisses both their cheeks, giving Heather a careful smile. “I’m going to the little boys’ room,” he says jokingly.

“Okay,” she smiles. “Hurry back.”

As Stiles is halfway up the stairs, he hears the sound of cars pulling up outside. He turns just in time to see Derek Hale stepping out of one of the cars, flashing his badge at one of the waiters milling around the crowd. “Good evening,” he hears Derek say. “I’m agent Hale with the FBI. I’d like a few words with the host.” His heart does a strange thump at the sound of Derek’s voice.

The waiter nods hurriedly. “I’ll get him.” He disappears out into the crowd. Stiles hurries upstairs. He can’t risk being seen.

***

“Right over here,” the waiter says, and Derek follows him towards a serious looking man, dressed in a pristine white suit jacket.

“Good evening gentlemen, I’m Roger Strong,” the man introduces himself, shaking Derek’s hand.

“Derek Hale, FBI,” Derek answers, holding up his badge again. “These are agents Parrish and Lahey. Sorry to crash your party.”

“Not at all,” Strong insists. “What can I do for you?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to meet the groom.”

“Is there a problem?”

***

Stiles is standing on the second floor landing, trying to listen for Derek’s voice through all the other voices mingling together downstairs and outside. Heather comes running up the stairs, holding a stack of envelopes.

“Stiles, can you hold all these?” she asks excitedly. “They’re checks from my dad’s friends. They’re for us, so we can start a new life.” Stiles grabs her arm and pulls her into their bedroom. “Hey,” she says. “What are you – What’s wrong?”

“We have to leave,” Stiles says.

“What –“ Heather starts.

Stiles spins to face her, holding her face gently in his hands. “Heather, you love me right?” he asks frantically.

She nods. “Yeah,” she says quietly.

“I mean you’d love me no matter what, whether I was sick or whether I was poor or even if I had a different name.”

Stiles climbs up onto the bed and pulls a large suitcase down from the space above it. He drags it down onto the bed and opens it, revealing stacks upon stacks of cash. Heather gasps behind him. Quickly removing some of the money, Stiles replaces it with the first clothes he can find.

“Stiles?” Heather asks hesitantly. “Where did you get all that money?” She sounds like she’s about to cry. Stiles hates that he made her sound like that.

He looks up at her. “Heather, listen. A name, right? A name, it doesn’t matter. My name is John Conners. That’s who I am with you. But we all have secrets. Sometimes when I travel I use the name John Taylor, that’s my secret.”

“John Taylor?” Heather asks, clearly confused about Stiles’ rambling.

“John Black,” Stiles says. “Yeah, it doesn’t matter.”

“John Black?” She’s definitely close to crying now. “Why are you saying all this?”

“Heather,” Stiles says. “I don’t want to lie to you anymore. All right? I’m not a doctor. I never went to medical school. I’m not a lawyer or a Harvard graduate or a Lutheran.” He looks at her, knowing he’s breaking her heart. He needs her to know this. “Heather, I ran away from home a year and a half ago when I was sixteen.” His voice is breaking as he speaks.

He resumes his frantic packing. “Stiles? Stiles?” Heather sounds lost. “You’re not a Lutheran?” Her voice is so small and fragile.

He grabs handfuls of money and holds them up to her. “You see all this money? I have more. I have enough to last us for the rest of our lives. Look,” he pulls down another suitcase and opens it, revealing a similar pile of cash as in the first one.

“Stop teasing me,” Heather demands, a small, crazed laugh in her voice. “You’re John Conners and you’re twenty eight years old and – “ She looks up, tears shining in her eyes. “Why would you lie to me?” She sounds heartbroken.

“Heather –“ Stiles starts, but she interrupts him.

“I want to know your name,” she demands harshly, voice cracking. “Tell me your name.”

“Heather, we can live anywhere we want, but you need to trust me. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Do you love me, Heather?”

“Yes,” she says fiercely. “I love you.”

***

“Have you seen Stiles or Brenda?” Roger Strong asks his wife, Derek following close behind him.

“I think they went upstairs,” Mrs. Strong says slowly.

***

Stiles pushes two suitcases out the window and down into the backyard. The party takes place on the front lawn. No one is going to see him. Not if he’s quick.

“Stiles?” Heather asks. Stiles turns, one leg out the window.

“Heather,” he says, motioning for her to come closer. “Come here.” She does. He speaks quickly and quietly. “In two days you’re gonna meet me at Miami International Airport, all right? You’re gonna leave the house after your parents go to sleep, you’re going to take a taxicab.” He hands her a large stack of cash. She takes it in trembling fingers. “Give the driver this money right here and tell him to drive through the night. You’re going to arrive at 10 am. 10 am, alright?”

***

Derek turns and sees a champagne bottle with the label ripped off. He heads up the stairs, Mr. Strong following after him.

“Which room, sir?” he asks, gun drawn and held out in front of his body.

“In the corner,” Mr. Strong says, and Derek moves forward.

***

“You have to listen to me,” Stiles says urgently. “The International Terminal in Miami, all right? Say it.”

“The International Terminal in Miami,” Heather repeats. She’s shaking harder.

“No matter what.”

“No matter what.”

“You’re going to take the taxicab.”

“I’ll take a taxi.”

“You’re going to be there at 10 am.”

“I’ll be there at 10 am. 10 am, no matter what.”

“In two days, Heather. Two days.”

“I’ll be there in two days at 10 am no matter what.” Tears are streaming down her cheeks now. Stiles wishes he could stay to comfort her.

“We’re not going to tell anyone. You have to promise me, now.”

“Wait,” Heather says. “Before you go, please tell me your name. Please tell me.”

Stiles is halfway out the window. “John William Stilinski, jr.” he says. He grabs her face and pulls her into a harsh kiss. He hopes it isn’t their last.

***

Derek kicks open the door, gun raised. The window is open, curtains hanging out, flapping in the cool evening wind. There are bills floating in the air, lifted by the breeze from the window.

Walking further into the room he turns and finds a young girl – Heather Strong – standing against the wall, shaking and crying, clutching a stack of cash in her hands. Derek puts the gun away and approaches her slowly.

***

**Miami International Airport**

Stiles drives up in a brand new car, dark sunglasses on his face. He stops close to the terminal entrance at 10 am sharp. Seconds after stopping, he sees a cab stop. When it drives off, he sees Heather, clutching a suitcase in her hands. Stiles smiles and steps out of the car. He goes to meet her, but stops. Lifting the sunglasses from his face he squints. She’s been crying. As he watches, a man in a dark suits passes by her, barely slowing down as he leans in and whispers something to her. Heather gives a tiny nod.

Stiles gets back in the car, shutting the door harshly. He looks around at the people milling around outside the airport. Men in suits, holding briefcases. It’s impossible to tell who might be an agent. He looks around, towards the surrounding buildings. There are two men standing on a roof, dressed in overalls, working on an antenna. It’s past those two men that Stiles sees it. A third man, barely visible from where Stiles is sitting. He’s holding a pair of binoculars.

Stiles sighs heavily, sparing Heather one final glance before looking away, dropping his face heavily into his hands. “Heather,” he whispers, shaking his head. He thought he could trust her.  

He looks up again, determined. With his sunglasses hiding his face, Stiles turns the key in the ignition and drives away, past Heather. He doesn’t stop.

***

“The guy’s a no show, he must’ve gotten wise –“ Parrish says.

“Maybe he was tipped?” Lahey suggests.

“If he’s not here today he’ll be here tomorrow,” Derek insists. “We’ll get him before he leaves the country.” They’re walking through the airport.

“He doesn’t have a passport,” Parrish points out.

Derek scoffs. “The last six months he’s gone to Harvard and Berkeley. I’m betting he can get a passport. So we’ll have our men waiting for him here at Miami International. He’s used it before; he knows the layout.”

An agent comes up to them. “I’ve talked to Miami police. They’ve offered us fifty uniformed cops in two shifts of twenty-five,” he says.

“With our guys that’s almost a hundred men in one airport,” Parrish points out. “Don’t you think we should spread it around?”

“No,” Derek says resolutely, shaking his head. “No, this is the exit point.”

“How do you know he hasn’t rented a car and driven to airports in New York or Atlanta?” Lahey asks.

“Because I’m not in New York,” Derek says firmly. “I’m not in Atlanta.”

***

“Yes, uh, this is John Roberts, and I’m letting all the universities in the area know that Pan Am will be initiating a new recruiting program this year. I’ll uh, be stopping by your campus tomorrow morning.”

***

“Thank you all very much for coming,” Stiles says. He’s dressed in his full Pan Am uniform, standing on a stage, staring out towards an auditorium full of female student. He speaks loudly and clearly, making sure everyone can hear him.

“At the end of the day I’ll be choosing eight young ladies to be a part of Pan Am’s future stewardesses flight crew program. Now, these eight young ladies will accompany me on a two-month public relations tour through Europe. They will discover firsthand what it takes to be a Pan Am stewardess.”

The crowd cheers.

***

They’re walking past the airlines’ check-in counters. “Give me at least two men, no, one man per every two counters.” He stops, turns and gestures to Parrish once he locates him. “All right, Parrish?”

“Yeah?”

“Make sure your uniforms are covering the sidewalk entrances and exits.” They pass the men’s toilets and Derek has an idea. “Hey, let’s have periodic sweeps of the men’s lavatory.”

Parrish nods seriously and walks off to give Derek’s messages to the people who need to hear them.

***

Stiles spends his day interviewing countless women, asking questions like ‘what qualifies you to be a future stewardess?’ and ‘what are your best qualities?’.

“What qualifies me to be a future stewardess? Well, I think that I’m really friendly, and I can really help out, and um, make people feel welcome on the plane and –“

Stiles tunes her out.

The next one isn’t much better, spewing statistics at him.

“We’ll be travelling at 6 000 miles per hour at an altitude of 300 feet.”

The last person Stiles interviews that day, and perhaps the most memorable one, chose to, instead of answering any of Stiles’ questions, sing John Denver’s ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’.

Somehow, Stiles manages to keep his smile intact through all of this.

It’s a long day.

***

That afternoon, they’re all gathered back in the auditorium. There’s a man playing piano as Stiles announces the lucky six.

“Ilene Anderson,” he says into the mic. The crowd goes wild as one woman makes her way to the front, grinning wildly.

“Miggy Acker,” is the next name he announces. He honestly barely remembers any of them. He chose the names at random.

“Deborah Joe McMillan.”

“Candy Heskin.”

“Emily Johnson.”

“And, finally, Joanna Carlton.”

As the last girl joins him on stage he quickly rattles off some words about never giving up on your dreams and that he’s sorry he couldn’t take more of them. Then it’s off to get fitted for their stewardess uniforms. They get a few hours to pack their things and call their families. Stiles reassures them that they won’t be heading off to Europe just yet, but that they’re taking a trip to New York first.

The next morning, Stiles exits a town car in front of the Miami International Airport, three girls on each arm. He’s wearing sunglasses and has his pilot’s hat pulled down over his forehead. None of the people they pass give him more than a passing glance, too busy staring at the girls surrounding him.

After slipping away from the girls and boarding the flight to Paris, Stiles looks out the window as LaGuardia gets smaller and smaller. Soon, they'll be above the Atlantic, thousands of miles away. He takes a moment to think of Derek, how he's been chasing him all these years. For the past three years, he's been the most consistent person in Stiles' life. He thinks he might miss that about him.

***

Derek is standing in the middle off the airport hallway, eyes flickering across the terminal hall. A business man walks by talking on his phone. A woman carrying a squirming child disappears into the bathroom. A pilot strides past, surrounded by stewardesses. One of them smile radiantly at Derek. He returns it with a tight smile of his own.

An agent runs up to him, handing him a walkie-talkie. Derek quickly takes it and listens. “Derek, your walkie-talkie wasn’t working,” Lahey says hurriedly. “There’s a guy in a Pan Am uniform sitting in a white Coupe DeVille out in front of Terminal J.”

“That’s the charter terminal,” Derek says. “Can you get a look at his face?”

“He’s got his pilot’s cap on. I think it’s him.” That’s all Derek needs to hear before he’s running towards the exit.

He meets up with Lahey and a large group of agents, running towards the car. They dodge traffic and pedestrians. Derek has his gun out. There are agents surrounding the car. “Out of the car, Stiles,” Derek says loudly. There’s no reply. “Stiles? Step out of the car. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

The car door opens and someone steps out, dressed in a full Pan Am uniform. He turns around, hands up. “Don’t shoot me, I’m just a driver,” the man says. It’s not Stiles. He’s got a similar height, dark hair and pale skin, but it’s not Stiles. “A man paid be a hundred dollars to wear this uniform and pick someone up at the airport,” he explains.

“Who are you picking up?” Derek asks, gun still pointed at the man.

The man leans back in through the open car door. Derek’s hands tighten around his gun. The man comes back out holding a sign with the name ‘Hale’ on it.

***

Seven months later

**FBI Headquarters – Washington D.C.  – January 1967**

Derek is standing in Alan’s office, holding a stack of checks that he’s laying down on Alan’s desk one by one. “South America, Australia, Singapore, Egypt. The kid’s gone completely out of control,” he says.

Alan is leaning over the desk, studying the checks. “Why wasn’t I called?” he demands, looking up at Derek.

“Nobody was called, sir,” Derek explains. “The banks didn’t know it was happening until last week.”

“Impossible,” Alan insists.

“They didn’t call because it’s not counterfeiting. It’s something else.”

“What is he doing?”

“He’s making real checks, sir. These are so perfect the airline didn’t know the difference.”

Derek leans down and taps his finger on one of the checks. “The last check was cashed in Madrid a week ago. My guess is he’s still there. We have to leave now, today.”

Alan looks at him like he’s gone mad. “Go where?” he asks incredulously. “Spain? You want to go to Spain?”

“Eventually he’s got to go back to where the checks were printed. I think that’s why he’s moving his way back through Europe. Look at the map, sir. He’s making a circle. He’s running out of checks. I know it’s a – a long shot, sir, but if we could track him from Madrid, we could still catch him.”

Alan shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Derek. If you couldn’t catch him here you’re not going to catch him there.”

“But, sir,” Derek tries. “We’re going to let him get away?”

Alan looks up and gives Derek a hard look. “No, Derek,” he says firmly. “You let him get away.”

***

Months go by with the trail all but cold. There are small clues, a check here, a sighting there. Stiles still calls every Christmas, but he never gives anything up that's any real help. Derek works other cases, but somehow, he always seems to find his way back to Stiles Stilinski. The other agents say he’s obsessed. That he can’t let it go. That he just needs to accept that Stilinski will forever be ‘the one that got away’.

They’re right, in some sense. He can’t let it go. He’s tried, and he can’t. He doesn’t have it in him. Because, as much as Stiles needs someone to chase him, Derek needs someone to chase. He doesn't know when his feelings changed from merely wanting to catch Stiles to wanting to catch him and stay with him, but they did.

He doesn’t have anyone else. Laura doesn’t want anything to do with him. Neither does Cora. Grace barely knows who he is. Peter is still comatose; he probably won’t ever wake up again. His colleagues barely know him. The only one who seems like they’d ever make an effort, an actual, honest to god effort, is Stiles. A criminal Derek has been chasing for years. A game of cat and mouse that never ends. So no, he can’t let it go.

It takes almost two years before Derek gets another real lead. It comes in the form of a fresh check and an expert in industrial check printing.

**November 1968**

“A perfect 1/16th all the way around. The color separation is flawless. There’s no bleeding. Hmm.” Derek follows the man into their shop. There are two more men sitting around a table, surrounded by pots of ink and drawings of large printing machines.

The man hands the check over to another guy who looks down at it, lifting the glasses from his nose to get a closer look. “Nobody does work like this in the states,” he says.

The first man nods. “Nobody but us.”

“Where was it printed?” Derek asks.

The first man turns toward Derek. “It was printed on a monster,” he says.

“A monster,” the two other men agrees.

“A Heidelberg, an Istra.”

“Heidelberg,” the men nods.

“A dinosaur,” the first man explains. “Four colors, you can smell the weight. Two tons, without the ink.”

“Where do they do printing like this?” Derek asks, gesturing to the check.

“Germany, Great Britain, France,” the man lists off.

“France!” They say loudly together.

Derek nods. He has all the information he needs. He and his team leave the shop, stopping outside.

“France!” Derek says. “Stiles’ mother said the name of a village in France where they didn’t have Sara Lee. The village where she met Stiles’ father.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Parrish says. “I don’t remember.”

“It started with an M,” Derek says. They’re so close. “Mont something. Mont. Mr. Lahey?”

Lahey is quickly flipping through the pages of his notebook, trying to find the notes he took when they visited Mrs. Stilinski. “Uh, yes, yes,” he says when he finds the right page. “Question: you met your husband during the war? Answer: yes, I lived in a small village in France. The kind of place where they had never heard of Sara Lee.”

“Tell me you wrote down the name of the village Mr. Lahey.”

Lahey turns around and looks up at Derek. “Montrichard,” he says.

***

**Montrichard, France – Christmas Eve 1968**

It’s snowing, but the snow melts almost as soon as it hits the ground. Derek is walking, slowly, through the little town center. He passes a church. The doors are open. He can hear carolers singing inside.

Derek stops in front of a large industrial building, hesitating for a second before reaching out and grabbing the handle, pushing it down and entering the dimly lit building. It looks old. Most of the space is taken up by a giant printer press. Suddenly, Derek understands what the experts had meant calling this thing a monster. It really is.

Moving further into the room, Derek sees stacks of printed checks. He walks past them to a large red ‘emergency stop’ button. He presses it, and an alarm immediately sounds.

Seconds later, Stiles pokes his head up from the middle of the press. He looks around, confused. And then he spots Derek. A smile breaks out on his face. “Derek!” he yells. “Derek! Merry Christmas!” He’s grinning like a madman. He’s shirtless, face covered in splotches of dark ink. “How is it that we’re always talking on Christmas, Derek?” he asks, yelling over the blare of the alarm. “Every Christmas I’m talking to you.”

“Put your shirt on, you’re under arrest,” Derek says calmly.

Stiles ignores him. Instead, he ducks down and reemerges with a small pot. “Hey, are you hungry?” he asks. “You want some beans, Derek? They have the best French beans here!”

“Listen, Stiles. There are two dozen French police outside,” he says seriously.

“Derek, I’ve got to tell you, they’re delicious,” he says around a spoonful of beans.

“They wanted to bring you in,” Derek continues.

“You want a bite?”

“They wanted the help of an American. But I told them I wouldn’t bring you to them unless I could put the cuffs on you myself.”

“You have a gun? No gun?” Stiles asks, still eating beans.

“No,” Derek answers, opening his jacket so Stiles can see that he doesn’t have any weapons.

“No gun,” Stiles repeats. “And – and you tell me what, there’s two dozen French police officers out there right now, on Christmas Eve? That’s what you’re telling me?” He’s grinning.

“Yeah,” Derek nods, slowly approaching Stiles.

Stiles puts his pot of beans down and walks backwards, away from Derek. He laughs. “All right, all right,” he nods. “There are no windows here,” he extends his arms away from his body, as if Derek doesn’t know there aren’t any windows. He half runs towards the door. “I’m going to take a look out the front door.”

“No!” Derek says. Stiles stops and looks at him, still smiling. “No,” he repeats, quieter. “I told them I’d walk out first and give a signal.” He approaches Stiles again. This time he doesn’t move. “Here, you put these on,” Derek says, holding out a pair of cuffs.

“No,” Stiles says, taking a step back. “I can’t do that. You know why? I think you’re full of shit. I don’t – I don’t think there’s anyone else out there.” He’s still laughing. “It’s me and you. That’s right. I think it’s just me and you. Know what? You’re going to have to catch me yourself.” With those words he disappears down an aisle. Derek isn’t going to chase him.

“We don’t have time for this,” he insists.

“Ah, that’s good. That’s good,” Stiles agrees, nodding. “Tell me what you want me to see, huh?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you!” Derek insists.

“You’re wearing a wedding ring, Derek!” Stiles yells, suddenly angry. “You lied to me about that. You lied about that!”

“You asked me if I had a family,” Derek says. “I did, but I don’t anymore. I had a large family, but most of them are gone.” His chest hurts just thinking about it. About his family. About what he did. “The ones that are left don’t want anything to do with me.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something else but is interrupted by the phone on the wall ringing. Derek walks swiftly over to it and answers. “Yes?” he says, still looking at Stiles. “No, no, no, there is no problem,” he insists. “We’re coming out right now.”

He hangs up. Stiles laughs. “Whoa, that was good,” he says. “That was good. What, did you – you pay some hotel desk to make that call for you, is that what you did?”

Derek shakes his head. “It was Captain Luc. I’ve got one minute to bring you out.”

“Ooh, Captain Luc,” Stiles grins, wiggling his fingers. “Captain Luc!” He’s constantly moving, up and down the aisles, grabbing armfuls of checks, as if he still thinks he’s going to get away from this. He’s put a t-shirt on. The t-shirt is covered in ink stains too. “Well, Derek, I’ve got to say that sounds pretty official to me, but like I said, I think it’s just you and me here. So you’re going to have to catch me.”

“Stiles,” Derek tries. “Stiles,” he repeats, louder. “You have to trust me on this.” He knows he’s starting to sound desperate. He is desperate. He’s spent too much time chasing Stiles. He can’t lose him again. Not just because he would probably lose his job. He’s invested too much. He cares too much about this man. He doesn’t know when he started feeling like this.

“These people have been embarrassed. They’re angry. You rob their banks, you steal their money, you live in their country. I told you this was going to happen. There was no other way for it to end. Don’t make a mistake.”

“That’s good,” Stiles nods. “That’s good, Derek, you know? Keep pushing that lie. Keep pushing it. Keep pushing it until you make it true.” Stiles’ voice is breaking. He’s once again approaching the door.

“They’re going to kill you,” Derek throws out. It’s his last hope to make Stiles believe him. “If you walk out that door they’re gonna kill you.”

Stiles stops, mere steps from the door. He turns to face Derek. He looks exhausted. This is what a man on the run looks like.  “Is that the truth?” Stiles asks.

Derek nods. “Yeah.”

“You have any children, Derek?” Stiles asks.

He shakes his head. “I have a four-year-old niece,” he says.

“You swear on your niece? You swear?” Stiles asks. He drops the checks still clutched in his arms, let’s them all fall to the ground. He holds out his hand. “You swear?”

Derek pushes the cuffs into Stiles outstretched hand. Stiles takes them this time and puts them on. Derek removes his coat and puts it around Stiles’ shoulders. It’s cold out there.

They walk out together, to an empty town square.

Stiles looks around and starts laughing. “That was really good, Derek,” he says, grinning.

Derek opens his mouth to respond when sirens start blaring. Four police cars suddenly drive up, and police officers start pouring out, guns raised. They’re yelling furiously in French. “I have him in custody,” Derek yells. “I got him, it’s all right. It’s all right, I got him,” he says.

A police officer comes up to them and nods to Derek. He’s speaking in rapid fire French. Derek doesn’t understand what he’s saying. He grabs Stiles’ arm and starts leading him towards a car. Derek follows closely behind.

“Hey, I want it – I want it on the record. John Stilinski surrendered on his own accord. Understood? Understood?” He doesn’t get a response as they push Stiles into the backseat of a car. He looks younger and more scared than Derek has ever seen him.

“Where are you taking him? Let me in the car,” Derek demands. “Let me in the – Hey! Let me in the car.” The officers ignore him, shutting the door behind Stiles.

Derek walks up to the window, staring at the man - boy, really, - through the window. When it comes down to it, Stiles is really just a scared boy. “Don’t worry, Stiles,” he promises. “I’ll have you extradited to the United States.” The car drives away.

***

**Somewhere above LaGuardia International Airport – December 1969**

“Derek,” Stiles says, leaning over the empty seat towards Derek. “You have to remember to let me call my father when we land. I just want to talk to him before he sees me on television or something like that.”

Derek doesn’t answer. He sighs heavily, looking over at Stiles. He unbuckles his seatbelt, lifts the armrest dividing their seats and slides into the seat next to Stiles.

“Derek, look,” Stiles says, pointing out the window. “That’s LaGuardia right there,” he says. “Runway 44.”

“Stiles,” Derek says. “You father is dead.” Stiles freezes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to say anything until we got closer to home. He – he fell down some steps at Grand Central Station trying to catch a train. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.” Because I care about you, he doesn’t say.

Stiles looks at Derek. “You’re lying, right? You said I could talk to him,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Derek, who are you to say something like that? Who are you to say something like that?” His voice is rising in volume, gaining the attention of people in the surrounding seats. “You said I could talk to him,” he all but yells. "I trusted you."

“He broke his neck,” Derek says quietly. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Derek moves back to his seat. Stiles starts breathing quickly. He puts his face in his hands.

“Goddammit,” he sobs. “Derek,” he says into his hands. “I’m going to be sick.”

Derek quickly slides out of his seat and grabs Stiles’ arm, getting him to stand up. “It’s all right,” he assures the surrounding passengers.

“I’m going to be sick,” Stiles repeats, standing up.

“Here, let’s go to the bathroom,” Derek says, leading them down the aisle.

Stiles locks himself in the bathroom, breathing rapidly. He’s sobbing, moving around the small space as much as he can. He sits down on the toilet seat and looks at himself in the mirror. His hair is longer than it’s ever been. He has a beard. He looks older than his 21 years, but he feels much, much younger. He wants his parents. He wants his happy family back together. That’s all he ever wanted. “Oh, dad,” he breathes through his tears.

Outside, Derek, Lahey and Parrish are standing, waiting for Stiles to emerge.

“You’ll have to take your seat, sir,” the stewardess says firmly. “I’ve told you twice, we’re landing.”

“Sorry,” Derek says, then leans close to the lavatory door. “Stiles, come on now. Stiles.”

“We’re landing in six minutes,” the stewardess says. “All of you need to be in your seats, seatbelts fastened.”

“Stiles, open the door,” Derek insists. There’s no answer from the other side of the door.

He gestures to Parrish, who steps up and throws himself against the door. He does again, and again, until finally the door gives. Derek rushes inside, only to find an empty room.

Kneeling down, Derek sees unfastened screws on the floor. He lifts the lavatory to reveal a hole underneath where Stiles must have climbed through. Derek is halfway through the opening, calling Stiles’ name when the other agents pull him back. He is not letting Stiles get away again.

***

As soon as the wheels hit the runway, Stiles is climbing out, clutching the landing gear. He knows what he’s doing is dangerous, but honestly, what does Stiles have to live for. His father is dead. The wind is blowing in his face, drying his tears. When the plane slows almost to a stop, Stiles jumps off, running as fast as his legs will take him.

***

“Alright, remain seated everyone, FBI, stay seated,” Derek says, once the plane has stopped. Passengers are getting out of their seats, opening the overhead compartments. Derek and his team are furiously trying to make them stay seated.

Derek leans forward and looks out the window. Outside, he can see a person – Stiles – running across the runway. “God almighty,” he mutters to himself.

***

**Long Island, New York**

Stiles has, by a combination of sneaking onto trains, hitchhiking and running, gotten to Long Island. He’d looked up his mother’s address in a phone book. Now he’s outside a large, beautiful house. There are Christmas lights hung on the trees and around the door. Snow is falling. Stiles is shivering. He’s only wearing a white shirt and jeans.

Stiles stumbles over to the window and stares inside. He sees his mother. She’s sitting in a cozy looking living room, smiling at something her husband is saying. Stiles can’t hear them. A small girl walks up to the window, dressed in pink pajamas. She has Stiles’ eyes. The eyes Stiles got from his mother.

Stiles gently lifts his hand and taps a finger against the window. She copies the motion, tapping one of her small fingers against the window.

“What’s your name?” Stiles mouths through the window.

She doesn’t answer.

“Where’s your mommy?” Stiles tries again. She turns and points to Claudia. Stiles feels tears stinging his eyes.

There are sirens screaming in the distance, getting closer by the second. Stiles stands up and stumbles away from the window, walking backwards. He doesn’t see them, but Stiles can hear the sirens blaring loudly as the police cars drive up behind him, surrounding him. Tears are spilling down his cheeks now. He’s lost everything. There’s nothing left.

Stiles raises his hands above his head as he turns and faces the police officers. There are a dozen guns pointed at him. Stiles barely sees them through the tears. He stares back at the little girl in the window – his half-sister. “Put your hands behind your head,” someone yells. Stiles does. He sees Derek walking towards him.

“Derek, get me in the car, please,” he begs. “Get me in the car.”

Derek looks at him and nods to one of the other officers. “Put him in,” he says.

They drive away quickly, Stiles in the backseat, Derek sitting up front. Stiles turns around just in time to see his mother, Adrian Harris and their daughter standing in the open front door.

***

**January 1970**

“Taking into account the gravity of these crimes, your history of bold and elusive behavior, and your complete lack of respect for the laws of the United States, I have no choice but to deny your request to be treated as a minor, and sentence you to 12 years in Atlanta’s maximum security prison, and recommend strongly that you be kept in isolation for the entirety of that sentence.”

***

**Georgia state prison – Christmas Eve 1974**

Derek sits down in the visitor’s room of Atlanta maximum security prison. On the other side of the glass sits Stiles. He’s been in prison for almost five years. He looks tired. Every time Derek sees him he looks tired. Derek grins, lifting the phone to his ear.

Stiles sighs heavily and picks up his own phone.

“Merry Christmas, Stiles,” Derek says happily.

Stiles nods slowly. Derek knows that he is the only one who ever visits Stiles. His mother hasn’t come to see him. None of Stiles’ old friends have contacted him since they found out who he was. Stiles might not look happy, but Derek knows he’s lonely. He knows he enjoys Derek’s visits. Derek wishes he could get here more often.

“Hey, I got you some comic books.” Derek holds a copy of the Flash up against the glass.

“How’s your niece?” Stiles asks. “What was her name?”

“Grace,” Derek says. “Well, I don’t know, she lives with her mother, my sister, in California. I don’t get to see her much.”

 “What’s in the briefcase?” he asks, nodding towards the briefcase sitting next to Derek. As observant as always, then.

“I’m on my way to the airport,” Derek admits. “A paperhanger is working his way through Minnesota. Jesus, he’s driving us crazy.” Derek shakes his head.

Stiles immediately sits up straighter, suddenly interested. “You got any of the checks?” he asks curiously.

“Yeah,” Derek nods, opening the briefcase. “I got a counterfeit he drew on the Great Lakes Saving and Loan,” he says, holding the check up against the glass. “See, he’s just using a stencil machine and an Underwood.”

Stiles stares at the check, silent for a few seconds before looking up at Derek. “It’s a teller at the bank,” he says.

Derek’s eyebrows rise. “Say again?” he says.

“It’s definitely a teller, Derek,” Stiles insists. “I mean, banks, they always use hand stamps for the dates, see,” he points to the date on the check. “They get used over and over so they always get worn out and the numbers are always cracking. The sixes and the nines. See, they go first.” Stiles shrugs, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Derek turns the check to look at it before putting it back in his briefcase, closing it. “Thanks,” Derek says absentmindedly before getting up to leave.

***

**January 1975**

Three weeks later, Derek comes back with his boss. They’re led into a room, the only furniture inside a table and a few chairs. A few minutes after sitting down, a guard comes in, leading a handcuffed Stiles.

“I’d like you to take a look at something for me,” Alan Deaton says once Stiles is seated, pulling an envelope out of his briefcase and sliding it across the table towards him. “Tell me what you think.”

Stiles picks it up, turning the envelope around in his hands. He opens it and pulls the check out, giving it a brief glance before looking up. “It’s fake,” he says. Alan raises an eyebrow, looking over at Derek for a second before looking back at Stiles.

“How do you know? You haven’t looked at it.”

“Well, there’s no perforated edge, right?” Stiles says, once again talking as if everything he says should be obvious. He holds the check in his hands, running a finger along the edge. “I mean, this check was hand cut, not fed.” He wiggles the check before nodding. “Yeah, paper is double bonded, much too heavy to be a bank check.”

He lifts it to his face and runs a finger across the letters. “Magnetic ink,” he says. “It’s – uh, raised against my fingers instead of flat.” He sniffs it once. “And this doesn’t smell like MICR. It’s some kind of drafting ink. The kind you get at a stationary store.” He sits back in his chair, dropping the check back onto the table.

Derek looks over at his boss, a small smile on his lips. Alan gives a tiny nod and turns back to Stiles. “Stiles,” he begins. “Would you be interested in working with the FBI’s Financial Crimes Unit?”

Stiles shrugs. “I already have a job here, you know, I deliver the mail.”

Alan fixes Stiles with a hard look. “Stiles, we have the power to take you out of prison,” he says slowly. “You’d be placed in the custody of the FBI, where you’d serve out the remainder of your sentence as an employee of the federal government.”

“Under whose custody?” Stiles asks cautiously.

Derek smiles, raising his hand slowly.

***  

**March 1975**

Stiles is wearing a cheap suit, walking up to the front desk of the FBI Headquarters in Washington D.C. “Hi,” he says quietly. “I’m Stiles Stilinski. Sorry, John Stilinski, I guess.” He manages not to flinch at the sound of his father’s name. “I’m supposed to start work here today.”

***

There’s a knock on Derek’s office door. He looks up. “Sir, Mr. Stilinski is here,” the receptionist says. Derek nods and gets up, moving to the doorway. At the other side of the office, Derek can see Stiles. He’s dressed in a dark suit Derek knows he bought second hand. There’s no way he could afford anything else on the salary they were paying him.

He walks slowly through the office, looking young and lost, so far from the confident man Derek first met at a hotel in L.A. He’s moving slowly Derek’s way but he hasn’t seen him. Instead, he’s staring at everyone else, getting ugly looks from the other agents.

Derek turns back into his office and lifts a large box of case files. He walks over to meet Stiles.

“Hello, Derek,” Stiles says.

Derek nods. “Welcome to the FBI,” he says. “I’ll show you where you’re working.” Derek turns and walks away, knowing Stiles is following. He opens the door to a small office, just a desk, a chair and a small window. He drops the box down onto the desk and turns to face Stiles.

He looks uncomfortable. “Derek, how long do I have to work here?” he asks quietly.

Derek smiles. “It’s 8.15 in the morning to 5 in the afternoon. 45 minutes for lunch.”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, I mean, how long.”

“Every day,” Derek says. “Until we let you go.”

Stiles sits down in his chair, defeated. Derek closes the door when he leaves.

Throughout the day, Stiles sits at his desk, working his way through the case files. No matter how fast he works, there always seems to be more work to do. People come in almost constantly, dropping off more and more case files. He doesn’t know if he can do this.

After work, Stiles buys some groceries on his way home to his tiny apartment. He stops in front of a costume store. In the window, there’s a mannequin dressed in a Pan Am pilot’s uniform. Stiles looks away quickly and keeps walking.

That’s how the days pass; he gets up in the morning, goes to work, walks home from the office, makes dinner, watches television, goes to bed. Rinse. Repeat.

He’s been working there for a week. It’s Friday. Stiles walks up to Derek’s office and knocks.

“Hey, Derek,” he says. Derek looks up from where he’s closing case files and putting them away.

“Yeah, hey,” he says absentmindedly, showing piles of papers into drawers.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks, shutting the office door behind himself as he steps fully into the office.

“This is not a good time, Stiles,” Derek says. “I’m clearing my desk for the weekend.”

“Derek,” Stiles says slowly. “Do you mind if I come to work with you tomorrow?” He needs to do something else. He’s going to die if he’s forced to sit behind that desk every day for the rest of his life.

“Tomorrow?” Derek says, frowning. “It’s Saturday. I’m flying to California to see my niece. I’ll be back to work with you on Monday.”

Stiles nods. “Going to see Grace, huh?”

“That’s the plan,” Derek answers.

“So what should I do until Monday?” Stiles asks, hands pushed deep into his pockets.

“I’m sorry, Stiles, I can’t help you there. Excuse me.” Stiles moves as Derek walks over to the filing cabinet, opening it and rifling through it. The phone rings, and Derek answers. Stiles moves back to the door and slips outside, walking back towards his own office. Derek watches him walk away.

Stiles sits in his small, dark office, looking through books of criminals the FBI have registered. He finds himself. There’s a stamp across the bottom of his mugshot saying ‘captured’. He looks out the window to the office and sees Derek on the phone, a case file in his hand. “I hope you forgive me for this,” Stiles says quietly.

He looks down at the picture of himself again and uses a pen knife to cut off the top half, leaving behind the plate he’s holding up. He’s left with what looks like a regular personnel photo.

A few hours later, Stiles is at the airport, walking through an empty gate. He’s wearing a Pan Am uniform, carrying a briefcase. “How did you do it, Stiles?” Stiles stops and turns. Derek steps towards him.

“How did you pass the bar in Louisiana?”

Derek stops a few steps away from where Stiles is standing.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks. He pauses. “Listen,” he says. “I’m sorry I put you through all this.” He really is.

“You go back to Europe, you’re gonna die in Perpignan prison. You try to run here in the States we’ll send you back to Atlanta for fifty years.”

“I know that,” Stiles says, looking away. _I love you. I can’t stay_ , he doesn’t say.

“I spent four years trying to arrange your release,” Derek says insistently. _I love you. I can’t let you leave_ , he doesn’t say.

“I had to convince my bosses at the FBI and the attorney general of the United States that you wouldn’t run.”

“Why’d you do it?” Stiles asks curiously. He can’t remember the last time someone cared that much about him.

“You’re just a kid,” Derek says, as if that explains anything.

“Yeah? I’m not your kid.” _I’m no one’s kid anymore_. His dad is dead. “You said you were going to California.”

Derek shrugs. “My niece can’t see me this weekend. She’s going hiking.”

“You said she was four years old,” Stiles counters. “You’re lying.”

“She was four when I left. Now she’s 15. My sister has barely let me see her for the past 11 years. We don’t get along well. When I was nineteen, I got engaged to a woman I’d only known for about six months. I thought she loved me. I thought we were going to be together forever. And then she turned out to be completely unstable. She burned our house down, with eleven of my family members inside. The only survivors were me and my sisters and our uncle. He’s been comatose ever since, probably won’t wake up, ever. Laura blames me for it. I wear the ring to remind myself of what I did. Of what I caused.”

“I don’t understand,” Stiles says.

“Sure you do,” Derek insists. “Sometimes it’s easier living the lie.” He pauses, looking at Stiles. He holds his hands up in surrender. “I’m gonna let you fly tonight, Stiles. Not even going to try and stop you. Because I know you’ll be back on Monday.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asks. “How do you know I’ll come back?”

“Stiles,” Derek says softly. “Look around. Nobody’s chasing you.” He walks forward, closing those last few steps between them. He leans in close and kisses Stiles once, briefly, on the mouth, before he loses his nerve. “I’ll see you on Monday,” he says, trying not to look too hopeful. Then he turns and walks away, leaving Stiles standing there, stock still, looking after him.

He hasn’t felt like this in years. Not since Kate. She’s the only person, man or woman, he’s ever had feelings for until now. And this might be another mistake, but at least this time he knows what he’s going into. Stiles might not come back on Monday. If he doesn’t, Derek will have his answer. And well, if he does? Derek thinks they can figure it out.

***

Monday morning Derek is in the office, staring up at the clock on the wall. It’s 8.10 am. “Alice,” he says, getting the attention of the receptionist as she walks past him. “Has he still not called?”

“No, he hasn’t,” she says.

Derek stares over at Stiles’ closed office door, suddenly worried that he made the wrong call. Maybe he read the signs wrong.

Fifteen minutes later he’s in the meeting room. Stiles still isn’t there. “Good morning,” he says to the room. “I’ve called this meeting to discuss a new type of check fraud and counterfeiting in which the unsub is washing and altering checks, then massing them throughout Arizona. This unsub is a big dog, checks as large as five figures.” He gestures to the screen behind him.

The door opens. Derek looks up, hopefully, but it’s not Stiles.

“Sorry I’m late,” the agent says, finding a seat. Derek gives him a dark look. “Sorry,” he says again, looking sheepish.

Derek clears his throat and goes back to talking. “We have a recovered check,” he says. “Why don’t we step out to the bullpen?”

The group moves out to the bullpen where Derek sits down by a table, turns on a desk light and leans over the check, holding a loupe to his eye. “There’s impressions on every line,” he says. “Looks like the original amount was for sixty dollars.”

A hand reaches down and takes the loupe from Derek’s own hand. He looks up, confused, and sees Stiles standing on the other side of the desk, smiling down at him.

“Mind if I take a look?” he asks, gesturing to the check. He sits down across from him. Derek slides the check towards him.

“Cashed in Flagstaff a week ago,” Derek says. “Cost the bank 16 000 dollars.”

Stiles leans down with the loupe. “It’s a real check,” he says.

“Yeah, it’s been washed,” Derek replies with a nod. “The only thing original is the signature.”

Stiles looks up. “It’s perfect, Derek,” he says, awed. Derek nods. “I mean,” Stiles continues, gesturing down at the check. “This isn’t hydrochloride or bleach.”

“No,” Derek agrees, smiling. “Something new.”

Stiles leans back down and studies the check again. “Maybe a nail polish remover, where the acetone removes the ink that’s not been printed?” Derek suggests.

Stiles hums thoughtfully, still studying the check. Everyone else have walked away without them noticing. The only thing they’re focusing on is each other and the work between them.

“How did you do it, Stiles?” Derek asks. “How did you cheat in the bar exam in Louisiana?”

Stiles looks up from the check and smiles, very softly.

“I didn’t cheat,” he says. “I studied my ass off for two weeks and passed.”

“Is that the truth, Stiles?” Derek asks. “Is that the truth?”

Stiles smiles but doesn’t answer. “I’ll bet this guy steals checks out of mailboxes,” he says instead. “He washes off their names and he puts his own.”

“You saying he’s a local?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised.

Stiles shrugs. “Well, if it were me, I’d call the bank first, I’d check the balance.”

Derek nods. “Make sure there’s enough money in there to make it worth your while.”

“Exactly,” Stiles says. “You know, Derek, I think this guy’s pretty smart. I guess all we have to do now is catch him.”

“We’ll start first thing in the morning,” Derek promises.

***

“Where did you go?” Derek asks, looking over at Stiles, taking a slow drink of his beer.

Stiles looks up from his basket of French fries. “What?” he asks, chewing.

“On Friday,” Derek clarifies. “Where did you go?”

Stiles chews silently, taking a drink of his own beer. He grabs another few fries, popping them in his mouth. Derek watches this unfold, eyebrows creeping steadily higher on his face. 

When he finally swallows, he looks over at Derek and speaks. “I went home,” he says. “I went back to the costume store and returned the uniform. Then, on my way home I stopped by the liquor store on the corner and bought a lot of booze. I acquired large amounts of curly fries from the diner down the block, and proceeded to get very, very drunk. Which, uh, is why I was late today, by the way.”

“So you just spent the weekend at home?” Derek asks incredulously.

Stiles nods. “Yeah,” he says, looking down at his beer, hands folded tightly around the bottle. “I, uh –“ he clears his throat. “I did a lot of thinking. About like, where I am in my life and stuff, you know?”

Derek nods slowly. “Yeah.” He takes another drink.

“And, um,” Stiles frowns a little. “I just, I guess, decided that this, right here, right now, is where I need to be.” He looks up and meets Derek’s eyes. “With you,” he says, so quiet Derek might have thought he imagined it if he hadn’t seen his mouth move.

Derek feels a small smile tug on his lips. “Yeah?” he asks.

Stiles looks up, vulnerability clear in his expression. “Yeah,” he says, matching Derek’s smile.

No one’s watching them. No one’s chasing them. Later that night, they kiss again.

**Author's Note:**

> The character who dies is Stiles' father, who falls down the stairs at Grand Central Station and breaks his neck. It is not described in great detail, but Derek tells Stiles what happened and he has a panic attack.
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](http://illusemywords.tumblr.com/)  
> Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think!


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